We live in a society where people never leave or enter. Everyone just remains. People do exit, but they all come back. Their dreams did not come true. They return to find that nothing has happened. Nothing ever happens There is no one to start a commotion.


New houses for new people have been built, but present residents buy them for their children, and their children. Even if they do not exist yet.


My ancestors were one of those people who came to America before there was an America. They were fur merchants, and would come back and forth. Once they did well enough, they just stayed. Never did they return back to England. The population grew and they began out little town. It grew and grew, and then had an large increase with the Spanish influenza. People from the cities flocked like sheep. Then we just remained. And now were are here.


It is an dreary existence. The sky is always black. The dogs always sulking. The children do smile though. But they are only hiding their pain. The grass is brown, but I like it when the grass is a little bit brown. It shows us that our world isn't perfect. Especially not our world. There are many evil people in our world, evil people who taint the perfection in our world. Our world isn't perfect, even though people on the outside think it is. Those smiling kids will kill themselves someday. The parent will give the house to another child. We don't mourn. Mourning is a sin father tells us. We put someone else before our work, and that is a sin.


But we are a town of fakers. My father is neither wise or religious. And the woman with the European accent has never left this town. She was born like the rest of us- at the little hall down the road. But I hear she was much too young then. But time has worn her down. Many of us arrived too young, but that is the way we were supposed to be. But she grew up the same way, and will die the same way.


In our town night's veil is never lifted. It is always dark. But we pretend it is light. We do this because we are a town of fakers. It's always better to pretend there is some kind of brighter existence. Our leader tells us that. He is a red-haired man with a face always streaked with vermillion. But it is evident that he does not exercise due to his obesity. So his flushed face makes no sense. But nothing ever makes sense here. Number and letter scramble, and people disappear, and nothing makes sense. Especially our leader. He lives in the large hall, always avoiding the small hall. The large hall is painted a similar color to him and is surrounded by fire.


While he is full of fat- we all are full of something- secrets, lies, memories. But we will never admit any of those things. For we are a town of fakers, the European woman is a faker. My father is a faker. And I- I am the greatest faker of all.