I am not a man who is prone to self-pity.
Self loathing, perhaps, at times. Self deception now and again. And selfishness, certainly.
But in this grey early evening of my days, now the years have blurred the looks that once attracted, and drained the power that once compelled. I am undone.
I have never wanted like this, desired like this, ached like this.
Yet I am without hope.
It is time to hang up these tired boots.