The twilit carousel turns and returns in ever slowing cycles. The ride is over and done—almost done—and we must get off. Inertia, that’s all that keeps us spinning. Round and round, but the engine’s stopped. The painted horse goes up and down. The ride is over, the last ride, and the ticket is spent. Now, I must go home. Home. Tired, the tiredness that comes from seeing everything and doing everything and dreaming everything . . .
. . . and the day is winding down. I must return. The carousel is slowing, and I must get off.
Tale Told 