I am looking looking through the marred and aged lenses of my glasses while sitting atop crossed legs that ache from under use.  I struggle to put words to the buzz in my head and remind myself not to clench my teeth lest they fracture.  In my glass for my soul should be water but is wine while waiting for a pie to bake.  I feel a small mess but I am alive and without right to complaint.  I make my daily deals with the fates with greater control than is easy to admit.  I am growing older but I do have that and this sadness that I feel for random losses around me is misplaced.  Were I, after all, laying bent at deaths door, I would relish the taste of another day, another word spoken, another chance.  I cannot let that go to waste.