What he was doing could not be called a dance, the way a convulsion cannot be called a dance, the way a seizure cannot be called a dance, the way St. Vitus’ Dance cannot be called a dance. But he moved, and his movements were rhythmic, and the rhythm was precise, and the precision was inhuman. His body jerked, contorted, fractured at the joints, his head tossed, his arms flew up and fell, his feet beat a sound out of the stone that was older than music
