He sat on a street bench one sun-strewn noon, wrote this on paper, and then dropped it in the trash without first crumbling it up.  :::By a certain age, we have found our limitations and have comfortably settled into them.  It should lead to acceptance of each other, but stories — that have lived – or will live – in our stead — get in the way.  Stories, that have done us good in certain stressful situations, now turn on us, demand the sacrifice of life.  Limitations become distinctions.  On these laurels, we prepare to die.  This passes for culture — in great part because it is all drama, and thus more transparent, communal.:::  He first used to leave such notes on cafe tables to imagine curious eyes discovering them.  Then he started leaving them where he began to think they belonged.