Every morning on the train, I get a ticket that states the time and what day of the year it is… Day 84.  March 25th, 2025.  Time is flying now.

All my life people have argued with me. I am wrong, they say. Fuck it. I am past caring.

I stay silent. I am invisible now. Old.

I am not alone. There’s many of us old fuckers. We could form an army. However, none of us can agree on anything.

I watch the young switching genders like suits or dresses and know in 100 years this will just be a note at best in a text or a novel where the curious wonder how we could have let this happen and some old bastard will mumble: “education and white women and Socialism was the Genesis.” As he waves to masses from his car window,”flying.”