“I feel like my old self. Especially since I feel like I’m developing dementia.”

“I’m thirty-six years old, but I don’t feel like it. Some days I feel like I’m twenty-one, some days I feel like I’m pushing sixty.”

“I’m in great shape. I’m 30 years old, and I feel like I’m 29.”

“I feel vulnerable. I I try to mask my emotions, but I feel like everyone knows what I’m thinking and feeling, and I don’t like it. I don’t like being an open book. I feel like I’m up on the stage, pouring my heart out to him, and it scares the hell out of me.”

“I feel like I’m finally whole. I’m five thousand years old,” he rasped. “But the day you found me in the woods, that’s when my life started.”

“They all fuss about me so,” she said. “They rub it in that I’m an old woman.”“And you don’t feel like one.”“No, I don’t, Jane. In spite of all my aches and pains–and I’ve got plenty. Inside I go on feeling just like a chit like Gina. Perhaps everyone does. The glass shows them how old they are and they just don’t believe it.”