Inside down deep a dancer lives. One way or another the dancer will get loose eventually.

I'm not a dancer.

I'm thought of as a cool, unemotional dancer, but inside I'm not.

He's at ease, his body sculpted to the music, his shoulder searching the other shoulder, his right toe knowing the left knee, the height, the depth, the form, the control, the twist of his wrist, the bend of his elbow, the tilt of his neck, notes digging into arteries, and he is in the air now, forcing the legs up beyond muscular memory, one last press of the thighs, an elongation of form, a loosening of human contour, he goes higher and is skyheld.

I was a street dancer.

I've got no plans to be a ballet dancer at the moment.