Today, again a story instead of politics.

I was once at another musical-dance party. Far away, beyond the Arctic Circle. It happened at night, but at a time of year when the sun does not set. The curtains were drawn. Thick, heavy, burgundy drapes. It was dark. Music that I did not know was played. An endless, melodically and harmonically sparse but rhythmically dense sequence. The dance was fervent, starved; as if greedily of this moment of darkness. Together, yet quite separately, without interaction. With colorful lights in hands, which illuminated nothing, only casting distorted shadows of dancing figures on the curtain.

This apparent night, extracted from the solar cycle, suspended the flow of time. Everyone lost in the dance, or simply in the movement, as if it was to last forever. Not until the end of the world. Endlessly. Without fatigue. Without idea. Until suddenly someone accidentally opened one of the curtains, letting the sunlight in. Everyone, suddenly stopping, squinting, looked at each other in astonishment. The movement ceased, but time rushed forward, sickening.

With warm regards to you, Nation.