Body, rifle, death. Blood, insanity, heat. We have been familiar with these words since the beginning of history. War and border. Lines exist on paper maps, but people on Earth die for real. This time, borders were doors that we closed on ourselves, while death was still dancing. Alone, isolated, secluded in fences. Scared of everything; afraid of another body that would carry our death. I was sitting behind these doors, daydreaming, and my dreams changed into colors and colors and lines turned into people; happily clung together, shoulder to shoulder, hand-in-hand, as if they were all one. The glasses rise and the music begins: This is the dance of life.