Like all men, perhaps there'll be an occasion, maybe a summer night sometime, when he'll look up from what he's doing and listen to the distant music of a calliope, and hear the voices and the laughter of the people and places of his past.

And perhaps across his mind there'll flit a little errant wish, that a man might not have to become old, never outgrow the parks and the merry-go-rounds of his youth.

And he'll smile then, too, because he'll know it is just an errant wish, some wisp of memory, not too important really, simply laughing ghosts that cross through a man's mind.
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