War leads to dancing; dancing leads to sex. Sex eventually leads back to war – so many people, so
little world.
To dance is to interrogate the body, to ask it the tough questions in its own fleshy language: why
are you here, and who, if not you, is leading? Are you God’s little pet or merely meat that learned
how to talk? The body barely notices itself on its evening walk, but on the dance floor, attempting
to twist into the polished wood like a corkscrew or oozing sauce like an agitated pork sandwich,
this whole batty enterprise of corporeal pleasure and punishment starts to hiccup. The band gets
hot. We all go to seed.