So, I have aged yet again. It’s an occurrence which I choose to ignore — for multiple reasons. But that is beside the point.

Recently, while shaving, I found a single hair quite lower on my neck than what past experience has taught me to be normal. A single hair which seemed bent on a migration — a pilgrimage, if you will — from face to chest. I rather quickly removed it, casting the offending traveller into the watery void of my bathroom sink. However, I suspect that this lone wanderer was merely the first of many. With the passage of each solar cycle the Greek in me quickens. I know that soon that lone traveller will return in a fellowship. And then an army.

I will be a different, more hirsute man.

I will live on, but it feels like dying.