i believe in

Precisely two minutes and 45 seconds into R. Kelly’s “Ladies Night,” when his echoed vox descend like shooting stars, glitter confetti, swathes of chiffon–and the guitar bubbles, restrained tickling on the counter rhythm–and he’s singing “Daaaaance, yeah”–because the dance is a transport, away from what we don’t know (jail?) but the steppers are angels, definitely; and I’m like, so far gone up in R.’s utopian uni I can’t even remember my own name: thank you for this particular moment, you creepy happy genius.