I went to the town hall meeting last night, which was a mistake, obviously. I actually used to *lead* some of those things, way back when, so I understand the mechanics of public engagement. The whole Q&A portion is designed to be a bit of a performance, I know. But it was just… interesting. I had a question, a perfectly valid, well-articulated question about the zoning proposal for the old mill property, and I raised my hand. And I kept it raised. For what felt like an almost comical length of time. It started as a minor inconvenience, really. A slight delay. Then it became a test of endurance, both for my arm and my ego. The moderator, a young man who looked like he’d been plucked directly from a stock photo of 'enthusiastic community member,' kept sweeping past my section. I saw him make eye contact, I'm certain of it. And then, almost immediately, his gaze would flick to a younger face, a male face, a face that probably hadn't endured fifty years of being slightly too loud, slightly too opinionated, slightly too… *present*. My hand, which I used to sign countless documents and direct entire committees, just stayed there, a little flag of irrelevance. The capillaries in my fingers were probably starting to protest. The truly fascinating part was the internal monologue. There wasn't anger, not exactly. More like a cool, clinical observation of an expected outcome. Like watching a leaf fall in autumn – predictable, inevitable. It wasn’t just the hand, you see. It was the feeling of being entirely, utterly permeable to the attention of others. Like I was made of air. I suppose it’s the body’s way of preparing you for the final fade, making you invisible in increments. My joints ache, my hair is doing... whatever it wants, and apparently, my voice now dissipates before it even reaches the stage. I eventually put my hand down, not out of defeat, but because frankly, it was getting tired. And the meeting was almost over anyway.