On my desk, an orange row of lights, blinking. Notice me. Do something. Fix me. in my pocket, a beep, pulse, demand. At the doorbell, chaos signalled. Incoming. Everything's a klaxxon. But at least I can find my friends. I see you coming, a dot on a map, closer, closer to the patterned hello. We won't be here some day, and that's OK. Another hand will open our door, tinier feet will scuff the wall and tumble up stairs, yelling. Other fires will blacken and spit. We're borrowing space, filling time, fretting about transient incidentals. Tomorrow, hurry tomorrow. The photos start to curl in like our fathers, wrinkling and dim in the sun. Their confidence has been worked over and softened up. Didn't expect this, they admit quietly between wake and sleep. Their yearnings, lusts and nexts are past, their stories highlight reels of the forgotten in-between days. Their plans are done now, glory redefined. Our exuberances, our milestones, our half-believed goals will happen and evaporate too. Others will follow behind, impatient, sniggering, not understanding why two gray people would want to hold hands as they walk to the very end, together.