The Dead Dance

The dance floor turns into a graveyard of feelings, where the gravestones are lit not by candles, but by strobe lights. The heart seems to have been buried, but the feet stubbornly beat out the rhythm, and something stubbornly alive grows out of the ashes of longing. The death of a relationship is a poor diagnosis if music can resurrect it. This is not mourning, but a sabbath: dark, bright and indecently life-affirming.