Peter Gabriel stands on a balcony, hands on a railing. He is in a black tuxedo, looking out at something far away, every hair, every pore in place. Inside the house where he and the balcony are, music is playing. I, maybe a woman, maybe a ghost (I can't remember which) am on the lawn outside the house. I stand under the balcony and look up at him. Music continues to play--I know people are dancing inside. A dance, I think. "Oh, could I have a dance?" "A dance?" says Peter Gabriel. "Of course." He smiles cunningly, then grows into a sabre-toothed gargoyle distortion of himself, and swoops down on me with a roar.

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