The most courageous kind of undressing involves no hands. It is a falling away of the masks we have worn for too long. And after all that beautiful carnage, the dancers themselves remain in each other's immortal embrace, long after the dance has ended and the music rings no more. But tearing rotted threads from rotten skin is like removing a gauze bandage from a recent wound; this kind of sting, is a lot worse than the Hell the preachers profess to know. Hell is personal... our own wounds have gouged out the lakebeds of burning lava, our tears have filled them, and they hear our screams thinking it is the demons. Shall we tear ourselves to shreds just to be able to look each other in the eye again? I'd love to have one last dance, if you will, my love.
Painting by William Haenraets
Painting by William Haenraets
