And the only thing falling in this act—
is you.

Follow the pattern.
Follow the rhythm.
Watch closely…

Thoughts tumble. Smiles soften. Minds hang suspended in the air like weightless rings, turning slowly in the tent lights. The juggler handles them all with the same practiced ease—guiding attention, redirecting focus, never dropping a single one.

It isn’t just the props being juggled.

Flaming clubs whoosh overhead, followed by prismatic chakrams patterned in shifting diamonds, shimmering as your eyes chase one and then another. You try to track a single object, a single path, but the pattern keeps changing, multiplying, repeating.

Hearing that bell how can we not snap to attention?