Round, like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel, never-ending or beginning on an ever-spinning wheel. Like a snowball down a mountain or a carnival balloon, like a carousel that's twirling, running rings around the moon, like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face. And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space, like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind. Like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel of its own, down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone, like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream. Or the ripples from a fable someone tosses in a stream, like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face. And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space, like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind. Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jingle in your head, why did summer go so quickly, was it something that you said? Lovers walk along the shore and leave their footprints in the sand, is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand? Pictures hanging in a hallway and a fragment of a song have remembered names and faces, but to whom do they belong? When you knew that it was over in the autumn of goodbyes, for a moment you could not recall the color of his eyes. Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel, never-ending or beginning on an ever-spinning wheel, as the images unwind, like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind. *