We dance on the head of a pin, in our bare feet, or those pink, plastic flip-flops with the white stars. Thoroughly modern, we have no muscle tone, no flaming sword. Terrible granduer is so Old Testament.
We no longer break the dance to wrestle demons, golden skin against scaly hide. They, also, are diminished. What proof our we against syndrome, or chemical imballance? We jig and reel and two-step across this metallic plain, without interuption.
Perhaps, like you, we need only an aromatic salt scrub to shed our skin and be reborn a bright thing (but not too bright), and a yoga mat to revive once mighty thews, and an IRA to toss off the yoke of eternal service.
Till then we dance our unchanging dance with outworn formaility, though no one wonders, anymore, how many of us there are.
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Author's comments: It amuses me. I'm not sure about the second paragraph. It might be weak. Should it be re-written? Cut entirely?
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