The wheel that spins over the pier flashes its lights. The metal cage sways with the breeze, back and forth, while your feet dangle above the world below. The dots on the street move in different directions, scattering. They march together to a beat.
I ask, do the people down below feel this breeze? This sense of freedom? Being so up high away from it all can give you perspective.
My friend says, How could they feel free marching in the crowd, following the masses?
Freedom is flying; flying is freedom. Birds are free, and as long as we’re on this wheel, so are we.
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