Dance. Heinz ruminated forever until his ruminations turned into a substance: it was green and gooey and stank of greasy thoughts and lazy feet. Not without difficulty, Heinz poured it into a jar that he sealed air tight. He glued a white label on the jar. On the label, he wrote “Dance of Death” and next to the word he drew a skull and crossbones. He was more proud of this drawing of a skull than of anything else in a long time. He’d always wanted to draw a death’s head but the expression on the skull had seemed either too jolly or too vacuous or even melancholic, even though the skull was finished with all of it, unlike Heinz who tended to gloominess. He was a giant who lusted after a much smaller woman, someone he’d known since she’d been a plumpish girl with the lips of the Bardot, and he a gawky boy liable to migraines. When he put his wheel-sized hands that longed for the waist of the small woman around his enormous head, he felt it again, the pain that he knew so well from long ago. Oblivious of everything around him, he moaned, turning his melancholy into a melody that only he would ever hear. Unbeknownst to him, the greenish lump in the jar jerked in time with this music, because everything was connected to everything else. If Heinz had really understood that, he’d have saved himself plenty of aggravation.