Tears of a funky chicken
Encased in headphones and cut off from the world, music fills my ears but not the air around me. Sometimes, yes, my foot will take to tapping. Or I won't be able to contain a quick little "dancing catfish," but for the most part my dancing like my digital music takes place in the comfort of my own head. Will I still be able to dance without wires? Am I a marionette and the mini my puppeteer? I don't think I've danced, save in my kitchen and right now in my desk chair, since May.

It's time for a party. The running man begs you. The pony cries out. The sprinkler grows rusty with each passing day. And the robot. Oh the robot.

He was never particularly well.