Is that? Is that the ferocious stench of primary function. In front of me please. Piece of meat. Knife, red, into it.
The uncovered areas empty of eyes and feet. Dancing in puddles. She goes dance. The fire. Drops of flame between the steps. The dry heat in a southern square. The prepared steps in couples rotate around the fulcrum. Swinging pendulous feet and hips in grips of leads and follows, to and fro. A southern square and a tinny sound box. The exposition. The tradition. The experience. Remembered on a wet platform as the feet go to and fro in puddles full.
Relaxed into it. Natural function. You don't realise.
Is that? Is that the... nevermind it will be here before you realise.