They shall grow not old, as we that are left

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.

"Nahhh," Fred cackled."Too poetic. And what's that bit about the sun going down?"The residents at Gardenside Assisted Living Center were trying to come up with a vision statement

that described the joyous adventure of aging. "A place where souls are nurtured?" suggested Fred. "Marvelous!" replied Bob. "Write that down. Add something about independence vs.

the human attraction to the word "Free." Fred and Bob jotted down their wild ideas all afternoon long. Was it the Old man's wine? The sunset? Who knew, but they were inspired again

flames from hyperspontaneity and a high BAC. "Quick, Fred, the prose chaser, the prose chaser!" Bob yelled. Prose is the grape juice to poetry's wine, but the flames grew anyway.

And four years later, the house was rebuilt. Why did it take so bloody long? Horsebricks were extremely rare after the War of The Necromancers. Bob insisted on horsebricks.

He liked the way they sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. And the fact that horses died to make them. Bob hated horses. Hated em. Couldn't even stand

the face of Mr. Ed on a box of Jell-o. Bob went so far as to carry a marker with him everywhere so he could deface every horse face he saw printed anywhere. This is how he

ended up on Sarah Jessica Parker's shit list. Bob had seen an ad for the Sex In The City movie and had defaced Carrie's face thinking her face was a horse's face. The bus ran late.