An old man with frail shoulders sits straight up in a blue leather recliner with clear tubes that run from his face, down the recliner, and across the carpeted floor to a silver machine.
The machine is shaped like a large bullet, an ironic form given the purpose of the machine, which is to maintain life. It alternatively hums and puffs as it delivers a steady stream of air.
His thin shoulders are pressed back, stretching open his lungs as wide as possible. He is desperate for air, desperate to live and quickly losing ground in the battle that he always fought so effortlessly.
Aging with grace and beauty, apathy or bitterness doesn’t slow the spinning of the planet or alter its course around the Sun. The old man is just another tiny ant in a colony of many that continue to borrow, build and plan for the future right up until there are no more tomorrows.