There is a story and it sounds like this.
It begins and it ends. It is strung together by syllables, and whispers, and words. Some words are life rafts. Others, sinking ships. And sometimes the story is only the stars in the sky or the scent of sun on your skin or the dirt on your hands. Some people tell it backwards and they shuffle their feet and they can't look you in the eyes. Some people only speak in riddles, and others only lie. And some people become a part of your story, and the movement of their hands creates an arc. And some people can only create white noise. But there is always the story.
Told as much through the tapping of feet and rattling of bones as it is by the silences that impart deeper meaning. I will say to you, 'this.' And you will say to me, 'that.' But it is all the same story. Told by faces and tongues and lips. And sometimes by knees. And sometimes by the softer parts. We may hide our story like a secret and bury it in the earth. We wield it like a knife and threaten anyone who comes near. We bear it like a yoke and reap and sow the burden. We carry it like a lure and perform the dance of the seven veils.