The Artist.

Your expression is music because a Sufi once taught you that God is only experienced in motion, a dervish before the minaret. Two women are standing in the doorway and behind them the rain is falling. They are neither your mothers nor your aunts nor your friends. But an image and her shadow of the woman you see in the mirror, the drum kit in the back of the studio you haven’t played since you were a girl and the self-portrait on the easel waiting for you to finish.

Did you forget? The dancing by your audience that surprises you every time.