My dad turned 64 yesterday.
When I'm 64 came out in 1967 when he was 21.
What he thought then. 1967. 21 years old. 64 seemed so so so far away. And now. He's there.
From here on out, 64 will be a recollection. What was so far away is now behind. Never to return.
Caught.
And that's the thing about When I'm 64. You think about it. Don't you. What it'll be like. Who you'll be. The future; so far away.
But it's not.
But it's not.
OR
I roamed the East Village last Friday evening. After a rock show. At a club where I have ingested many things. Many of them illegal. You'd never guess it to look at me but I have ingested many things. Many (sometimes) wonderful things. Back when the Village was mine. Ours. And now it's not anymore.
It's theirs. Walking at 1am on a hot August Friday evening.
The people were cardboard.
The spark was gone.
The light was out.
I could ask for more.
When I'm 64.
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