There’s a reason humans peg-out around eighty: prose fatigue. It looks like organ failure or cancer or stroke, but it’s really just the inability to carry on clambering through the assault course of mundane cause and effect. If we ask Sheila then we can’t ask Ron. If I have the kippers now then it’s quiche for tea. Four score years is about all the ifs and then you can take. Dementia’s the sane realization you just can’t be doing with all that anymore.

The Last Werewolf