There is no conversation here.
No story to tell. Stop looking for a plot or a hook. The man has no words or signs. Let alone a dance.
He tried, hell-bent, he tried. Restless.
Wasted hours, mind making incessant cart wheels, pretending tango. And no pen gets ever lifted, no keyboard hit. No grounded feet or intention. No move.
A man split inside. Pathless.
How can he move without a soul, how can he trust without himself.
Clumsy being full of techniques and capricious thoughts running like mice. Uncontrolled. And here he comes to the club, a fragile man of glass.
Language lost. Monkey mind.