And the whole thing starts to fold in on itself, layer by layer, until only the first guitar remains, walking its barefoot circle. The bell's echo fades last.
A single note, plucked, hangs in the silence like a dust mote in a cathedral. It shivers, then drops, finding its twin a fifth below. The guitar – not a voice, but a breath – begins to walk. Slowly. Barefoot on stone.
Then, just before the two-minute mark: a single tubular bell strikes.
Now the piano , hesitant, strikes a chord that sounds like dawn breaking over a moor. The glockenspiel sprinkles frost. And from somewhere in the left channel, a bassoon lumbers in, half-asleep, adding a touch of the ridiculous – as if to say, this is serious, but not that serious.
