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copello flipped the pages of helin's book back to page sixteen, to where nimbia was drawn as the young lion with an obvious amount of raw courage. on page sventeen, there was a drawing of him wearing the crown made impromptu from a broken flower vase. ("i'eeeem king of da foreeeeeeeeesssssttttttttt!!!!!!!")
"is there such a thing as the fountain of youth?" copello asked the old woman, who was looking out to where helin and the old man with the weezer t-shirt had disappeard into a small shed made from gumdrops and cotton candy. the roof was sheets of chocolat and when the sun beat down cruel, one could catch drops of liquid cocoa on the tongue.
anyway, she hesitated before answering because this was a question many people asked without finding the words.
at first, she simply wanted to say,
"no, of course not, look at me. i'm a fucking hag, drooping eyelids, missing front teeth, white thinning hair, various aches and pains. but then that wasn't the truth because she knew the fountain of youth existed, but only a a select few knew where its carefully guarded source was located. nimbia was one of them.
and so, instead, she said, "yes. there is. the proof is in the pudding, urm, i mean the pages before you. the roar of the youngblood."
nimbia was like people we know and wish we could be like, that is, ageless. contemporary in style, culture, and media awareness, he meticulously adapted himself to the atmosphere. a millenial chameleon changing the colour of his saavy to meet the politically incorrect requirements of his current demographical insistence. he refined chaos, shaping it to his advantage. he was civilly disobedient, urging others to follow. he grew organic food, had both gay and lesbian friends, and dated a sudanese refugee turned model.
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