My age is just the continuity of my words that trail down the page, never ending with complicated and falsely-applied metaphors about going home and being young. My age is just the words that drip constantly from my lips and from my limbs, never developing a valid thesis to argue and swathed in vagueness. My age is not much else. My age seems to be everything but anything that really has any substance or purpose. My age has never been a defining characteristic to me but to everyone else that is all they know me by. I have alluded to my many experiences always exaggerating their length, purposely never correcting those who assumed that I was telling the truth. Were I not to have been reminded annually of my physical growth instead of my mental then I would surely have grown much more.