Conversations, once so easy and carefree, have become like delicate archeological excavations—everyone has a lot that has been buried, and you don’t want go digging it up, for fear of breaking all their artifacts, dredging up their history. Careful, always careful, because just below the surface are vast reserves of pain, like patches of noxious gas. There is trauma and pain aplenty, broken friendships, unmet expectations galore, goals and dreams unaccomplished. The ever-present weight of gravity and time pressing down, obsolesence bottled up in tiny little jars and put into a museum Eventually, all the coffins come spilling out of the graveyard. This is why I veer things toward ‘conversation topics’ now—books, magazines, abstract ideas, anything to keep us from realizing that there’s no floor below us. Anything to keep the conversations from veering towards angst and despair—we simply wouldn’t be able to stand it. But somebody always ruins our gentle, congenial rapport–convincing themselves that they need to be the pernicious bearers of ‘reality’—then the pain rises up—the grimaces on the faces, visage of death—despair pulling down the sides of the mouth, jowls sagging, a pressure building at the back of the skull. Age that was hidden in laughter and joy begins to show, and like some contagion that spreads from face to face.