And the young man awoke one morning and saw in his reflection in the mirror the old man that he wasn’t yet; and he saw in the lines that gave character to his expression the creeks that experience carves, and he saw in the black rings under his eyes not the consequence of a late night but the legacy of a life lived, and he saw in the drooped weight of his eyelids the distinct marking of failure, and he saw in the cracked skin that covered his lips the slow passage of unnoticed years. The time has come. A paused, croaky voice fills the air with learned determination. Eyes meet eyes in the deep surface of the mirror. I’ll never be an old man.

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