At Fifty-One, Izzy B. could still see himself as the embodiment of a tabula-raza; his mind, one of a Rabbi or Monk, with his books. He craved quiet and solitude; restful moments, unbound, bringing all noise to heel.
Daily, his father's radio spewed rants, offending Izzy's ears. When Izzy found some quiet, he embraced it, and read his books, and wrote poetry, and stamped his words in stone.
(He, Izzy B., thought to himself: What's in a name? He still did not know himself; and if he didn't know himself he was lost; just biding the clock, one day into the next, without rhyme or reason.)
And so, he goes on, living the life of a contemplative, as if each word were a final testament; a last gasp, strung from the heart.
(to be continued...)