“The sun is still in the sky and shining above you,” the ABBA ladies sing, and I believe them, because Toby installed a china ball in the living room cieling. It casts an even warmth over the whole room; it’s almost like being in a microwave.
ABBA has always kept my feet from touching the earth. I dance, not sexy like Madonna, or skillful like Fred Astaire, or even stupid like Michael Douglas. I dance like Molly Ringwald, kicking and flailing and bobbing at the same time, dangerous, joyful. For the bliss I’ve found in brokenness. Have things gotten better, or have I just realized they were fine all along?
I’m sorry, I’m dancing, I can’t answer.