The turning world is the verb. Its subject, the still point, the dancer.

The path to the heart of this mystery is an inner one, a treacherous labyrinth of grammar, overgrown with a thousand rose-red thorn pricks. Corrections. Inadequacies. Doubts. It’s hard to breathe. Something pungent—a smugness, a cloying righteousness—chokes the air.

At the centre, there you are. I am. We have been: the selves at the still point, the dancing.