In the rearview mirror you see children in white dresses and miniature tuxedos dancing and twirling and laughing at a wedding reception the carefree revolutions of youth, the grownups move in slower smaller circles, closer together, holding hands, eyes more contemplative and brimming with the sadness of passage.
In a wide carpeted room there is a clock. In rooms everywhere there are clocks. The hands spin so you can knock off minutes hours days and lives. There are people gathered everywhere mourning what the clocks tell them, what the clocks scream, what the clocks remember from long ago.
You stack up chairs and stand on the unstable mountaintop this top heavy construct and shout, there are books, there are philosophers, there are musicians destroying guitars and drums--don’t cry over the moving hands.
The chairs are rickety and are like a group of frail acrobats building and holding onto their loose architecture built to the heavens. The gathered are oohing and aahing and their worried sounds fill the room rise on high and you wave your hands motion everyone for just one second to stop.
Then you are on the tip of one foot. Then you turn. The chairs below you wobble like worlds built on fault lines. But you’re turning. You spin to stop the thing that's devouring us all the thing where someone close dies you say if I just keep moving the pain doesn't have a chance. This is your revolution.
The people watching are frozen silent can't clap. You know will cry if you stop and think. So you spin your hands in the air round and round and round, spinning, unstoppable motion, blur, light, essence.