Age of Appearance

"How old are you?"

"I do not know...."

"How can you not know?"

"Unless we count from when we get here...."

I understand theoretical numbers yet unsure if thus pertains to me. Memory is existence; now is nonexistence. Aestheticism is priceless; currency values survival of the fittest. None are athletes for trackless cycles.

Sensational blunder is enough to keep me here. I am indefinitely, I am uncertainty; such excitement threads the living dead.

"You kids should not be in the cemetery this late at night."

"Is he talking to us?"

"He's looking at us and talking."

"Kids??"

"The children of goats."

"You heard me what would your folks think about you wondering about especially round here?"

"Folks??"

"The goat children's guardians or milk patrons."

"You two should come with me."

"Where are we going with you?"

"You both will stay with me for the night and in the morning I will make you breakfast."

"Do you have goats?"

His expression is a solemn face; goats symbolize the afterlife.

"Did you two come here for the goats?"

"We came for ourselves."

"Yes....we are fascinated by the stones."

"Will we become stones?"

"What lays underneath the stones?"

"You sure you want to know?"

"Yes...."

"Absolutely sure...."

We come to the driveway of a modern abode. Upon entry there is no furniture except a floor futon centering an open spacious area; he attempts distraction for the sleepy ground leading us into an Olde English guest room. We shed tears for memory; sentimentality is the kindness of men with ghosts as companions.

"I got to get to work."

"We will come with you."

Nodding approval he walks us through a switch handle exit; passing by stone masses is our guide with a shovel upon his left shoulder. He turns back to smile; cold moisture bounces serotonin .

"Just like Moscow!"

Our grin is incidental, we gasp a pile of bodies wearing the same expression; not a single grin to greet us.

"What are they?"

"Something goats piss about."

He spins the shovel around his neck slamming the blunt spade indentation into the appearance of a child; he does not spew a drop rather the body slumps artificial plasma.

"He's ready!"

We latch him into a recyclable/biodegradable vegetable plastic cocoon; see through entertainment for the dead. We feel no emotion; the pupils appear as paint from technological origin.

"He looks like somebody's toy; they must be bored."

"I wonder where his antennae must be located....."

"It must be in the spinal cord."

"It's not really a spinal cord."

"The hollow tube of communication...."

"That's a decent description; they must have a name for it or some way to identify it from the others."

"They do look alike; it must be numeric such as a bar code."

"You mean this thing?"

His right fist charms a bundle of vein mockery; red and purple glows LED reflection. Further examination concludes a minuscule portion of black lines listing a series of numbers - 3796579; this particular cord intertwines both colors.

"The number implicates some kind of message...."

"This number will find us again I am sure."

"We will need to disconnect it somehow."

"Yes....I do not want it as identification."

"I never noticed that before; same amount people use for telephones without an area code."

"Really...."

"That is uninteresting as this might be interesting if we gave a damn."

"Yeah I don't really give a shit either let's put him in the dirt; let the others deal with it."

"What others do you refer?"

"Other than us or other than them?"

"Other than us and other than them. Somehow the tubes disappear after a while. I just wait a bit and put another one there."

"What about the elaborate coffins?"

"Yes we like those quite a bit."

"So do I......not sure about those, guess that's for show or celebration. I get paid for these and they bring me the tubes; this is what I do."

"Who brings you the tubes?"

"Who pays you?"

"It's like I am asleep when they come; I can't describe them. I just know this is what I do and I enjoy doing it. These things got to be put somewhere and I do not want to be around them. I get my groceries at night when the automatic machine can check me out. I pay for everything through machines. I rather not see them but you guys are different. You make me feel better about them."

His right foot wobbles a tad, we notice his hip is slim to the ankle; his shoes mismatch.

"That happens to me often."

"What do you mean?"

"She loses track of a heel and becomes my frailty."

"I know what it is like to be without a heel. I know what it's like to be without a lot of parts."

Perhaps we do not understand. Clumps of dry earth uncover a layer of bedded chicken wire which we erect into a wall of underground flowers oddly resembling the collaboration of daisies and roses; two buds of symbolic enchantment mated for an undertaking.

"What shall these flowers be named?"

"I am too astonished to think of anything."

"I call them Sicklebees."

"Why is that?"

"I use a sickle to remove them and bees swarm around the pistils. I haven't a hint or a clue where the bees come from; they are small with long double paired wings."

"Do they make honey?"

"Something like that...."

"What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't eat it."

"Can you show it to us?"

The color of Sicklebees is red and purple. We come to a dead tree, center of the thing's sea. Swinging from petrifying limbs is an elliptical spindle rapidly spinning; Wakizashi splits a symmetry for nectar neither sticky or dripping. Flavorless crystal gems full of unknown nourishment embodies our frozen existence.