35 years old, and what is he? A husband, but hardly a hopeless romantic – that man's still inside but rarely emerges. A father, but green and rough around the edges, learning but failing as a matter of course. A son who doesn't call much, and when he does, doesn't listen closely enough. A so-called servant who gets caught up in himself far too often and questions his motives regularly. A writer of stories and poems and essays that no one wants to read unless amusing pictures are involved. A describer of clothing by profession, having nearly perfected the gentle art of literary persuasion as a method of salesmanship, yet still wondering how he ended up with this dubious expertise. A dirty, rotten sinner who practices his trade daily and repents and practices and repents and so on and so on. A man who isn't ashamed to admit his failures, who's often too prideful in flaunting his successes, yet is deathly afraid of letting anyone in for fear of rejection over either. This is what 35 years looks like. Old enough to know some things, but still too young to comprehend others. Halfway to dead, out of sight of the finish line, but far too far to hear the starting gun.