There is a force in the world, running like electricity through the arteries of the world. For so long, it sleeps beneath the surface, hands concealing a frightened face. But it is in us; I still see it in many things. In a crescendo, in the cracks of a marble column, in the dust around a dancer and on the nape of your neck the moment before a fall. In so much else, too. This force tries to hide from us, we dream of it and forget in the morning. But we know it is always there.