The following should not be considered torturous, at least not in this circumstance: getting painlessly saran wrapped to a long and thick wing of a windmill, an old one that’s sturdy as it holds, but gives off a good and rusty moan every time it lumbers through another revolution. It would be good to be attached to that oar-like wand, with your head on the bottom side of it, as far away from the epicenter as possible so that you could feel the full rush of the movement in a circle, the spinning as gracefully and easy as it could possibly be in the belly of a modest, almost charming wind. Around and around you would go, the blood flowing like a flash into your eyes and sinuses and then letting up as you turn, pulled by gravity around the bend.