Sometime last year, a message arrived in my junk mail from a mysterious, incredibly wealthy distant relative. They were gravely ill, but had tracked me down to let me know that upon their impending death, a multimillion dollar fortune would be left to me. The email was titled – “Greetings from the sick bed.”

…

A fairground carousel stands alone atop a misty green moor. Its wooden boards are flecked with the remnants of primary coloured paints, Weathered scenes of romantic silhouettes dance atop rolling hills, around huge fires and beneath bright stars. I lay in a double bed, lit by a single yellowing bulb and carved into the shape of a goat. The bed, replacing the traditional merry go round horse, circles the old wooden structure again and again, it’s moorland view directionless and unchanging.

The speed at which the bed completes its orbit is in rhythm with the tempo of the carousel’s music. It chugs along with repetitive clicks, one moment slowly and shakily, the next attempting to swing round the frame with such enthusiasm that I’m forced to cling to the bed frame.

As my consciousness becomes bound to the carousel’s six melodies which loop over and over again, I enter into a lucid dream-state. I dream of a wanderer who embarks on endless journeys from heaven to hell and back again, an eternal process which leaves him unable to distinguish one from the other.