‘But one man (Matthew Baker) danced alone. He quietly unbuttoned his shirt and pulled off his own pants, folding them neatly. But his dance was chaotic and pained. He twisted and thrashed. Then suddenly he stopped in the middle of the floor and sobbed. We could see grief rippling through his body—in his quivering hands, heaving chest, and the knobs of his backbone pressing through his skin—and somehow in the magical transference of authentic dance, his grief became mine. I ached for him, and I ached for me. And for a moment, we were no longer alone.’
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