I go out barefoot. My toes touch the cold tiles, and inside there is fire. In the glass there is tart wine the color of sin, in my hair there is wind, in my body there is lightness.
I dance. Not for someone. Not for likes. Not to please.
But because I can. Because this is my body. My energy. My rhythm. Sinatra sings, and I spin, as if my freedom is art. And at this moment... I am perfect.
Not because someone said so.
But because I feel - I am alive.
And let the neighbors think that I am strange.
I am magical. And I do not need to explain.