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.
Get alive where the