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He is old. At least he feels it, often. Sometimes he still thinks he is twenty, but his body tells him otherwise.
He has little to show for his seven decades on this earth. He doesn't have two pennies to rub together. Why he would want to rub them together he does not know. Would they mate? Produce little monetary offspring, perhaps?
At least he has his health. Such as it is. He is not particularly well off in that department either. But he is still breathing, so that is an advantage he has over many of the people he worked with, the ones who succumbed to the cancer of the lungs. He wonders what made him immune to that disease, and others. He has outlived most of his friends and nearly all of his family.
Unless you count his brothers children. And you'd have trouble counting them all. They breed like fucking rats. But unlike rats, he never sees them. They avoid him, and he avoids them. It is an arrangement that works for everyone. He coughs and his back hurts. He stands up and stretches and then sits again.
...
Picture is a selfie I took just now and then prisma'd it.