Oh, how easy it must be to pride yourself on the line formed at your foot when you lack awareness of its nature, its through-ness
Taking rotations brought high by your motion at the peak afforded a view of the desolate, crumbling city you inhabit many fleeing after the first glimpse others needing more convincing "just one more spin" but in the end none stay
Still you blame the supposedly fickle hearts of men and women alike finding the image of your George Washington Gale in their departing silhouettes but have you ever noticed the likeness of your shadow to the emptiest number? I thought not
Easier to find them the demon in your sparkling town than to find yourself a novel attraction in their metropolis of life
One day with chipped paint and rusted bolts you will find yourself too tired to revolve any longer inertia holding your stillness close, a dead man's grip A kindred soul, with an ache in their bones will walk at their own pace through the queue, feet falling where children once stood, waiting eagerly for your allowance The cemetery walker will find a low still seat, and settle.
They will be spared the bird's eye exhibition of the abandoned streets the husks of industry the empty parks but still your city remains and if you are lucky they will stay still.