I want to live a long life so as to be able to experience and reflect upon this predicament of ours from every humanly possible temporal perspective. For each age of life has its characteristic insights and illusions. Youth has its truth as midlife its crisis, a crisis risible to the man ten years beyond it: "What the hell was that all about?"
And as the years roll on, and the fire down below subsides, certain insights become possible which were not possible before. The young man's dong is a magic wand that conjures and weaves the web of maya the better to ensnare him and keep him tied to the transient. The old man who makes good use of his old age sloughs off the illusions of earthly love that were always more hydraulic in provenance than pneumatic. He now has a good shot at moral and spiritual improvement. But will he take it?
Or will he essay to prolong his dong and with it the web of lies it weaves? Nothing is more pitiful than the decrepit oldster who keeps himself jacked up Hefner-style. But despite the Viagra and the nubile nymphs cavorting for his delectation, poor Hef could not rise to the occasion and was reduced to manual mode.
Live long for the end of life's day in wait for the the owl of Minerva who spreads her wings at dusk. There are still things to be learned and things to be done that can only be learned and done here below. As for you workers in the vineyards of Wissenschaft, "Die Erntejahren eines Gelehrten kommen spät," as I once heard Hans-Georg Gadamer say. "A scholar's harvest years come late."
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