Part four - its my birthday, so be nice.

Walking up through the streets the odd group weaves in and out of the forest of immovable bodies. Some with limbs entwined at the elbow, or with fingers linked in their own untieable knot, bound together far more firmly than they could have imagined.
Passing a charity shop, the window display dances, the no longer needed, but once much loved wedding gown, it's beaded bodice shimmering with movement, small pearl beads twitching as the crafted designs, sewn into place with such care, flow along their threads, encased but unconstrained as the gown and suit waltz again behind the glass.
The metal men beckon the pair on as the one with stops to take pictures of the dance. Catching a glimpse of the one without's shoulder as she turns back to take another look, the tattoo there moving more than the motion of her turn would suggest.
"Wait!" calls the one with, stepping behind her friend and pulling at the material of her shirt, exposing more of the inked design on her skin.
"Look!" she cries, finding yet more amazement in this latest revelation. The inked crows and magpies caught in flight that adorned the back of the one without were now flapping their wings and staring back with bright eyes, full of life as they swooped and flew across the skin of their sky. Straining her neck she struggles to see the artwork so painfully gained now flowing so smoothly.
Their metal guides pause, looking for themselves at this new phenomenon, the discovery of the two. Clearly this was not something they had seen before, nor ever expected.
Moving on now with purpose, a low grinding noise pervades the air, subtle and rhythmic. Heading higher into the town, past shops crammed with the solid human forms, caught up in their shopping and in themselves. So busy, so silent, only the beat of metallic noise that was growing louder at each step.
Rounding the corner they come upon the road to the football ground. The statue in bronze of the best and most loved player of old, moved here to the obscurity of the access road after a home on the main street of the town led to the expense of replacing the ball almost weekly after visits from drunken souvenir hunters. The favoured man only met the crowds now on matchdays, and was left to the security of loneliness for the rest of the week.
The hero of so many matches grinned as he leapt down from the plinth, light on his bronze feet, catching up the heavy ball and headding it with a resounding clang. The old restrained movements of the veteran player doing keepy-ups, each contact with the ball a thud, a ring from an old bell, an addition to the ever louder grinding metallic crunch that was filling the air.
Catching the ball he grins, nodding in the direction of the football ground itself. The pair turn, following the direction of his gaze, looking over the heads of their guides to the huge looming structure. The stands, their metal ribcage dominating the skyline throughout the town. As the day shifted toward twilight, lights flared on for a match, illuminating the source of the constant noise. The metal beams that made the ground so recognisable were stretching, breathing, reaching up into the sky in celebration of existence, concertinaing in on themselves as the women watched, agape, the heartbeat of the city.