There’s something fascinating in middle-aged men and women. The concrete is halfway dried and one looks over what has been done in that tie, what has been seen and felt and undertaken. The individual can change, grow, alter their form with diligence and effort, but they often do not. A living chrysalis, a breathing sepulchre.

For better or worse, they begin resigning themselves to their fate. This is it. Now I must live with it.