We mustn’t stop dancing. Whilst we dance, we are ourselves.

Though the band hasn’t slept for days—though their fingers bleed, strings break, voices crack—they must keep playing.

Outside, those who have abandoned the dance gather, craning their ears, listening to the music—waiting patiently for it to stop.

Sam Hall is a short story writer and poet from a miserable island. When not writing, he’s either fixing leaks in his cabin, building uncomfortable furniture, or chasing after runaway chickens.