At night, I can sense something behind me. I suddenly start moving, but after only a moment, I flinch or stumble to a stop and grow hot. I don't know how old I am.
By the morning, everything has changed. The surrounding world is like an open book that challenges me to read it, but is too close to read comfortably. Tell me my age.
Next, the valleys around me accumulate thick clouds of mist that fog up my senses, as if stuffing cotton into my ears. I don't know how old I am.
I'm sorry to complain; I try not to. People say that my confusion is deserved. Nobody gives me any information. Tell me my age.
The most entrenched division can gradually flatten out like a tattoo whose lines have blurred over time. I don't know how old I am.
