the Face of Everyman was a patient soul. After all, his humble origins were as molten magma cooling into a stately basalt column far to the North eons ago. The ride South on a slow moving glacier was about the speed at which life seemed to be comfortable. Yet, here and now, important things were slow to occur. Six weeks ago he had requested that his space be cleaned and freshened. The Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa hired some guy on Torkie’s List because of the lo-ball estimate. Now, unsure when adequate fresh water would be flowing; his skin was drying out and starting to exfoliate. For the first time in his life he knew anxiety.