The carousel spins, painted horses chasing goals in a circle, the place

                                          the horizon folds right into a unending now. We sit, greedy the reins

                                           of our wishes, because the calliope whispers in melodies solely we will hear.

Beneath the cover, shadows dance, and we chase the tails of our

     ambitions, every flip a brand new world, every spin a tether to the actual.

On the wishing effectively, pennies drop, silver goals sinking into the abyss. We

                                     peer over the sting, faces mirrored in ripples of what could be.

                                    Whispers echo, comfortable as guarantees, and we solid our hopes into the depths, imagining

         a world the place needs float again to us, granted in silence.

                                                     Within the purse’s depths, an area of secrets and techniques, maps to hidden

             reminiscences scrawled on scraps of yesterday. Keys, trinkets, a fraction of a track,

      remnants of a self we stock, clutching our identities shut, patchwork quilts

    of previous and potential.

   Draped within the fabric of our fantasies, costumes of our turning into we stand

    earlier than mirrors, reflections of who we want to be, tangled within the warp and

        weft of now. Within the material’s fold, a sigh in opposition to the pores and skin, comfortable as hope,

     sturdy as actuality, woven into the on a regular basis.

Right here, the place the carousel halts,

     the effectively is dry, and luggage lie open, we discover our goals are however shadows,

dancing on the partitions of what’s actual.

                                                                                                                  – Connor McNicholas

at ensemble, New York
till November 2, 2024