He opened the book to the middle of his masterpiece. He had written it long ago. His eyes were not as good as they had been a year ago. The days had crept upon his heart. The nights had sickened his lungs. He should have smoked less cigars and pipes when he in his youth. How was he to know this would be the major cause of his early death. He thought he was invincible, would live forever as a child, and his mind would carry him into great years of reflection in his old age. Here, he was with all of his accomplishment unknown to him, and these experiences were rarely memories. The doctor’s response was clear. He had a disease that robbed his brain. The doctor did not have a name for it, but there was no cure. He ran his fingers over a wet spot on the page. He didn’t remember ever crying. He knew it would like a mark. The words would be changed. The next owner of the book might throw it away. It was no longer in pristine condition. Such was the life of a writer past his days. He now had to pass on his excellence to the next young writers, making their own statements by way of long sentences. He was comforted he no longer had the ability to produce great novels, for it was too much pressure in his old age. Leaning back in his chair, he no longer recognized what he had become. Another tear dropped onto the page in almost the same exact spot. He wiped it away with his palm and soon forget his own name.
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