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I knew it wouldn’t last; it’s already passing away. But I have spent a delightful day; I have been strolling all over the place. Everything reminds me of something else, and yet of itself at the same time; my imagination makes a great circuit and comes back to the starting-point.
I remember all those days individually; they seem to me as yesterday.

The Diary of a Man of Fifty (1879), Henry James

The First Forty-nine Stories (1938), Ernest Hemingway

Join in my child and listen
Digging through my old numb shadow
My shadow's shedding skin
I've been picking scabs again
I'm down, digging through
My old muscles, looking for a clue
I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could have been
I've been wallowing in my own confused and insecure delusions
For a piece to cross me over
Or a word to guide me in
I wanna feel the changes coming down
I wanna know what I've been hiding
In my shadow
Change is coming through my shadow
My shadow's shedding skin
I've been picking my scabs again
Join in my child
My shadow moves closer to the meaning
I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could have been
I've been wallowing in my own chaotic insecure delusions
I wanna feel the change consume me
Feel the outside turning in
I wanna feel the metamorphosis and
Cleansing I've endured in
My shadow
Change is coming
Now is my time
Listen to my muscle memory
Contemplate what I've been clinging to
Forty six & 2 ahead of me
I choose to live and to
Grow, take and give and to
Move, learn and love and to
Cry, kill and die and to
Be, paranoid and to
Lie, hate and fear and to
Do, what it takes to live through
I choose to live and to
Lie, kill and give and to
Die, learn and love and to
Do, what it takes to step through
See my shadow changing
Stretching up and over me
Soften this old armor
Hoping I can clear the way by
Stepping through my shadow
And coming out the other side
Step into the shadow
Forty six & 2 are just ahead of me

Forty Six & 2 , Ænima (1996), Tool


"My early fires have lessened,
I'm numb in the wind,
Unable to track the movement of cold nights.
I blinked down the years,
The interior room of my best spirit is wasted.
Forty-five years against the pitch of mediocrity
Has brought me low,
Away down.
My searches are few,
My paces along the winsome way in vacant shores
Are not as sudden.
There's no place to be anymore.
The jet runways rip the world in slick crossovers."

Antlers in the Treetops (2003), A.G. Mampel


"My wonderful scholar, tell me your name."
"Quarante-quatre, sir. Forty-four."
"Why--why--that is only a number, you know, not a name."

No.44, The Mysterious Stranger (1908), Mark Twain