The rain falls and will not stop until a week from today. Everyone sits inside, staring out longingly, hoping that someone will rescue them from the electricity in their brain. It’s an apartment complex, with homes crammed against each other like food in an overcrowded pantry—some of it is spoiled and needed to be tossed months ago.
Through sheets of rain, onlookers see a door open, and a figure steps out into the storm. He’s wearing sunglasses, black pants, and a thin turtleneck sweater. His shoes are white, and each step creates massive, temporary craters as he plods through puddles and miniature rivers created by the torrential downpour. He stops walking, then begins dancing to the beat on “Gone” by Romare, kicking his feet against the water, protesting its attempts to capture his soul. He raises his knees in time with the deep kicks and metallic spurts of synthesis and samples, then raises his arms, pointing to the windows, beckoning for others to come and join. They all stay indoors, confused but transfixed by his behavior. He turns in a slow circle, letting the rain seep into his clothes and splash on his glasses, inquiring whether anyone feels as he does: a caged animal desiring the open savannah.
As the music ends, he turns and slowly marches back into the house, his head down, doubling over and coughing into his arm before shutting the door.