I get angry when I lose control of things. I just don't want to lose what's mine. But what's the point of getting grey hair over milk that's meant to be spilt?

And when you see the world whizz past you beyond the split second thinking of your mind, you try to jump on the bandwagon and say, Hey! I'm still here! I'm still relevant!

Am I Not?

You begin to wonder if you've aged beyond the times when which you were deemed more than useless.

Oh am I not of twisted, convoluted intellect.

Tears well in his eyes, and uncontrollably, he sneezes. He hates the freaking dust.

So the packing begins.