Mr. Wilson can hardly be unaware that once a writer chooses to youthen or resurrect a word, it lives again.
He nods, time traveling to a point when there were no central lines, no low blood counts, no immunosuppressive drugs. His face youthens momentarily as he bridges back to a point on a timeline that has none of this devastation on it.
... for centuries, for millennia, what are your thoughts?" And then, I paraphrase, but Isaac ...
... my hair. You keep going for my hair. And then he's like, oh, yeah, telling me stories. ...