A motorik frolick ticks with the reed-winded breaths of this joyous, light-headed land. The clocktower, the castle. The steamers and pipes. They take much of it, the air. Though just enough remains for the delirious, depleted to dash, in a laugh, down a narrow mountain pass, or perhaps, have a gas, dodging gaff’s upon the bonnie banks.
A gaggle of teenagers twist to the ticks, above the bridge, with no certainty nor urgency, levitating slightly. Happiness is happiness in monotony. The clocktower, winding up the depleted and playing them out, over and over. Its hands reaching, for not much more than a minute before recoiling back where they first reached. The youths respond routinely with their gasping grins, like clockwork, as does the sky, the hour’s perpetual gold.