We are born already rehearsing the steps, spinning, gasping, touching strangers as if they were lovers, loving lovers as if they were strangers. We dress ourselves in colors meant to be seen from balconies and rooftops, scream for justice beneath indifferent skies, and kiss in doorways because there is nowhere left untouched by night. In the end, we are only ever art, wild, impossible, tender, half mad, made to dance, made to burn, made to vanish.