deep below the wishing well, in the tomb of wishful pennies, live a team of diligent elves, working day and night. palms outstretched they grab each cast away coin as it falls, clutching them to their grimy chests in hunger. they box them all up and melt them down in flat sheets by the dozen in factory fashion in precision. and they build from them tools and weapons; whatever it is that they need. their business is balanced on the backs of believers who pour out their hearts to deaf coins in scrunched eyes and in whispers and a flick of their wrists to the darkness below. perhaps if they knew the fate of their coins, the industrial dungeon just storeys below they might have spent their wishes on a shooting star instead, destined to shatter through space.
Isn't it strange that we wish on things that are going to die? Like coins thrown into fountains- they're just gonna sink. And shooting stars- they're going to explode. Birthday candles are going to be blown out. So why should wishes survive?