They have learned not to look backward or very far ahead these oldsters who come to dance to the raspy boombox in Lieschimu Square. One dim bulb is enough, only to light their way around each other while they glide like paired birds through the shadows their own bodies make. They know that travel is out of the question except for a tango, a waltz. What to do with them, the old? Their only flag now: baggy suits, flower print dresses, with no plans, anymore, but to dance. What stands out in the dark are their white hands held high like banners and where are they going now, dipping and spinning, late into the night and by what authority?