The god gold mold of old has on its facing side a turtle in profile curled along its circumference. On nights between the wane and wax, in full view, many invisibly small turtles are caught by the spell of this flight of fancy and spread out wings of imagination and take to the night sky in silence. There, one turtle finds a column of updraft and gasps with delight when the pit of the stomach drops. Blood flows away from the brain in euphoric sparkles of silver and space. The turtles drift down and sink into the lap of cool sand as the famous chariot breaks the eastern horizon. There, moving slowly, they are aging well.