Immobility is the focus of our muted ruckus. Let s say a disembodied violin hangs in the night air with its cracked bow jazzing across the catgut. It is the sum of earthly beauty. It plays the tune that drives us forward. I ponder this as I sit on my bed poking at my slippers.
Sunlight chips a morning wedge across the carpet.
Outside, the daily hammering is well advanced. It s time to mingle your shoes with the buyers and sellers, one foot forward, then the next. To bang your drum in the mortal parade. To believe yourself dancing.