The Fountain of . . .

It is a strange world down here in a place with people who walk around like men on stilts, although they crouch as they walk and their hands quiveringly grope for support. In some ways they resemble a child learning to walk, or to ride a bike, or tie their shoes - in other ways some resemble a fish on the sand grasping for water, or a bird on the ground still trying to fly. Many of their stumbling feet are shod in perfect shoes. Brand new shoes, never really used. Right out of the box.

Their hair is their ensign, a common sign of their species, usually combed into a neatly frozen arrangement when viewed from the front, but on the back it is always flat like a bug that has been squished. Another commonly seen is a flock-like chicken-style look on their faces, nervously turning and blinking and swallowing and blinking and turning another direction.

Their faces are trusting and they all seem to be expecting that Something will happen soon. They want to see it coming. They want to see it before it gets here. There is often a startled look as if “it” just entered the room, but they are not sure. They look to others for confirmation or perhaps help. Then they close their eyes as if to relax for just a few minutes more.

This land which was once was called the Land of the Fountain of Eternal Youth has sadly become the Land of Eternal Age.