What if my body could be an instrument of impulse?
What if my impulse was percussive?
What if my percussiveness was musical?
What if my musicality was a form of dance?
What if my dance was continuous action?
What if my action stemmed from boredom?
What if my boredom urged for urgency?
What if this urgency was towards relevancy?
What if relevancy was actually freedom?
What if freedom was movement?
What if my movement came from history?
What if my history swallowed my present?
What if my bloated present got pissed off at the future?
But, what if the future was innocent?
What if this innocence was ideal?
What if this ideal was music?
What if music was me?