There in the twilight, the swings murmur to the forgotten stars. "This is not a game," they whisper, their chains clinking with the sound of distant echoes, "but the heavens know no better." A child laughs, or perhaps it is the wind, and the slide creaks a solemn tune, a song of hesitancy and never was, never will be.
The see-saw lies still, pondering existential balances and the absurdity of its up and down. "To be a fulcrum," it muses, "is to know the weight of both worlds." And the merry-go-round spins slowly, a spiral of ink within ink, forever tracing the margins of its own forgotten stories.