As they swing around their common center, we cannot tell who leads. Holding to each other they swirl to right, reverse to left in a path that flows around the enormous room. The ceiling is a sky with chandeliers of a million flashing crystals and the floor is glass so clear it can't be seen. The music plays on and on. Beneath the dancers the land falls away and gradually we see the entire planet where the dancers were born as the ballroom carries them out to eternity.
As they move around and across the floor they create in the brilliant void a figure 8, not the symbol of infinity, but infinity itself. Perhaps the dance began; perhaps it would end. But they would never know. Because it's always now; because they're always dancing.
Being, by Lancelot Price 2008 April the first.
The waltz of heaven.