In one corner of a sparsely lit room a globe is spinning, watched by bulbous eyes; never spun but always turning, from time to time ignored.
On the globe move little men and women, worms and whales, that live and die very concerned about their lives on the globe and nothing much else. What else is there?
At one point, boys are hunting water through the desert, a hale might beat in another location, or two kittens feeding from a pig because their mother is dead and somewhere else a young girl traces names in a notebook then scratches them out. She bites off a piece of her lip and swallows.
At any passing longitude, there are great events to see: A petal seizes the breeze and snaps away from its blossom, an old man blows his nose, a child dies as he is being named.
I’m there too. On the little globe.
I climb up on my roof to look at my neighbors but the view is broken, obscured by a mess of trees. So I shut my eyes and lie down. I think about how long we’ve all been spinning. The thought of it makes me dizzy.
I pray for someone to press their finger against the side of the globe. To simply touch a far off mountain range or deep ocean expanse with their finger and slow the whole thing to a stop.
But as it is, I fear we’re picking up speed.