The man loves to go to dance recitals. He sits in the front row legs neatly crossed with program balancing on his knee. He rubs his palms against the smooth wooden arm rests. He doesn’t notice the music but the precision of movement against the tranquil background—a certain scripted beauty. The small human forms articulated and constricted. Earthly.
He watches each individual movement until they bleed into the next creating a blur of color and shape. He nervously closes his eyes holding the undulating forms and listens to the music. He drifts for a moment like a jellyfish.
