Stories…

It’s a Friday afternoon and the room is quiet but full.

Bodies move with ease slowly through the space.

Eyes looking ahead, remembering.

It’s Friday afternoon in Preston, but we could be anywhere.

Bodies push forward, onwards, endlessly.

They pass others as if they’re there / not there.

Whispers of words dance around the space as the mass moves on.

Eyes open.

Whispers of books & places & performances & objects & memories.

The bodies slowly shake their hips, hands raise, smiles form on the lips, toes tap, shoulders relax, and eyes gently close.

A swarm of silent bodies lost in dance in a room in Preston.

The distant sound of California seeps into the veins as The Beach Boys beats start to kick in.

We are lost.  We are dancing in California.  We do not want to come home.

We are lost.  Lost in a memory.  Lost in a dance.

A dance of love.  A dance of hope.  A dance to the future.  A dance to the past.

We do not want to come home.

We do not want to come home.

*Dance with eyes closed*