The sun has not yet fully set. The square is already ablaze with another light. The songs from the speakers hit the city like a hammer. Look, those faces wrinkled with age blush like young girls in the rhythm. Their arms rise and fall as if trying to catch the time that passes between the office and the kitchen. Their neatly harmonized steps on the concrete floor step over the fantasies of youth, the hard work of middle age, and the loneliness of retirement. Some people think they're a nuisance, but they don't know that this little dance is their weapon against stiff joints. It's their way of driving away the loneliness of their empty nest. That lady in red in the crowd, her steps may not be graceful, but the sparkle in her eyes is much brighter than the eyes of the countless overtime workers in the office building behind her. Maybe that's the simplest truth of all: when we finally let go of all our masks, we find that dancing itself is the final destination.
