I often find myself staring in awe of immortal things. Though my hands haven't always been there, they have always been there for me. And though I can't fully grasp the concept, I know one day my hands will be gone. Or at least the molecules will be changed to some other form. Maybe ash, or maybe dirt. Maybe my hands will be the fuel for some tree when I die, a tree that will be cut down for paper for a guy who has enough talent to write words that actually make people cry. Maybe not. Yet somehow I feel young, a lie made true by the pain I feel in my shoulders, like the old man inside is pacing back and forth on them not at all happy with how many more decades he'll have to wait before he can finally come out saying,"Ahh...now my shoulders really hurt." I just hope my old man has cool hair when he comes, and cool hair when he dies.