David Mitchell. Cloud Atlas (№ 159386)

Take a look at your future, Cavendish, those who Follow him. You're not going to submit any applications for membership, but the tribe's elderly and already enrolled you in the ranks. Your time will cease to keep up the rest of the world. Because of this slipping your skin is stretched and thins, so it will be hardly visible twitching bodies and veins similar to blue veins in Roquefort; the skeleton of your SAG, the hair thinned and the memory faded. To leave the house do you dare now only in daylight, avoiding weekends and school holidays. The language of others, too, run forward, and yours, when you hadn't opened your mouth, will give your tribal affiliation. Elegant women will not see you. Dealers, unless they sell lifts for stairs or counterfeit insurance policies, you will not notice. Your existence will only accept babies, cats and drug addicts. So don't waste their days in vain. Faster than you imagine you stand before a mirror in a nursing home, look at your body and think old vacuum cleaner for a couple of weeks locked in a damn closet.