An old man on his front porch, staring at the stars. The same woman would walk by.
“Old man, why do you stare at the stars?”
He would produce a fast remark allowing her to be on her way.
Now, was different, staring at the dying stars.
“I stare for myself, those I’ve lost, and I’ve out lived. These dying stars you see are all that is left of me.”
“It has to get better.” She frowned.
Crooked smile, when getting old all the platitudes do the same.