The justified wisdom of his age could not be contained within his ancient frame anymore.
A life, disorganised but worthy, lay perfect bound and broken spined on oaken crutches, glaring with fiery intensity at those who paid respects, even though his own eyes had grown dim and irrelevant years before. The full seven ages had coursed with vigour through his fingers, leaving their imprints upon his shelves as well as his body, and he regretted not a chapter or verse of his life, for his place was not to be an appendix in this world, it was contents and contentment.
This is my contribution to the fantastic Friday Fictioneers:
Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.)
Make every word count.
I hope I did!