They say that fire dances. Temporary entertainers, expending red hot energy at the expense of themselves. Performing a jig with such fluidity as an exotic dancer: legs and arms sharing a tale of sensual beauty. Over rugged wooden dancing stages they move with viscous urgency.

They say that fires lick. Hungry, thirsty. Tongues of a carnal quality caress each other. They too, dance with the music: five, six, seven, eight. It’s fluid, but with no liquid. They are singing songs of the night: hypnotic arias, which like siren song lure innocent passers-by into uneasy contentedness. All the troubles that plague the world are masked by the music, by the dancing.

They beckon you, “closer, closer.” A biting whisper of cracks and whistles. Their communication is seemingly telepathic, they cackle with no laugh, yet their call fills you with mutual desperation. Their waifish limbs flail about while the tempo accelerates faster and faster. Art turns to chaos, each performer fighting for their place on the stage. Red beads and crystals fly from couture costumes, the stage cracks and splits under blistering hot heels. They roar, they spit, they hiss. The dance has reached a furious temper, step away.