A dance qualified by fools, confirmed by scientific, intelligent creatures, by the majority sometimes, or by ‘common sense’. Common of the blinded, babbling, groping creature. Acclaimed by all except the silent fool, whose mantra holds only the words ‘ I know nothing,’ they dance with each other.
Yet they dance, the dancers dance.
Dance you on sweet children, distinguished dancers of a thickened heavy earth. Dance you on, though you die upon the morow, your dying from the day that held your birth. Bounce upon the strings that pull you here and too and sometimes slip you fro. For the dance you dance, it is not yours, despite the pomp and charade of you who thinks they know. The movement is not true, without the strings you cannot do, and so the illusion it simply grows and grows and grows.