Dance to the beat of the thump of the chase of the still and plastic horse hooves which cannot break from where they are secured by bolts and glue and eggshell-thin reality that paints a visage of sense almost enough to tell you that the nausea that swells and pushes at the limits of your mind is incorrect.

There’s nothing wrong.

The world in which the carousel will twirl is not the hollow hell you fear; it is the world. Just the world. A world where if you’d wished to have a name it must be stolen, carved and pulled full-bloody from the frame of others who would wish in vain to hold their selfness close.

You want a face? Take it. There are so many here, and those who cannot hold them, well, whoever chose to give them such a gift must take the blame, knowing they could never keep it in a world of so much thieving strangeness...

Cry to the horse, Go higher! Faster,offer painted apples that you think perhaps it might desire, but the frozen face is still the same, the simple cast of equine terror, framed and caught in wood and plastic bulging eyes of fear.

Its pace remaining as it ever was; it does not care for coming pains as you are torn.

Doesn’t it know who you are?

No.

And soon, neither will you…

So turn with the turn of the merry-go-round and dance to its jolly old song. Who will you be, with a name or three, and a stranger’s face worn wrong?

Excerpts from The Magnus Archives episode 165 “Revolutions”