I thought I would burn our old love letters. Not in a grand funereal pyre, or each individually with its own match. This isn’t grief or the dramatic gesture. I was thinking more pragmatically, of kindling for the fire. Liberated ... all those nails we drove into the floor, all those words, all those little black platoons marching purposefully across the page like ants. Of course, we couldn’t nail down anything. You never can. Or maybe I’ll use our letters to line the compost bin. It pleases me to think of all those big emotions mulching down, re-arranging themselves into the anatomy of worms.

For me, there’s nothing personal about the dance. It isn’t emotion put into movement; that’s back-to-front. The dance looks like me when it comes through my body, because it assumes my lines and forms, but it isn’t me – not when it’s good anyway. It’s something larger and more organic, something more like compost, building up and breaking down. It’s something more like burning old letters, unravelling the stories, returning meaning to source. And when I try to nail this too in words, of course it slips through my fingers and I’m left with just another story. Words close on nothing; there’s just the one hand clapping.