London. Wembley.
The lights cut.
Four women step into silence.
Count one. Two. Three. Four.
They move as one.
No talk. No lag.
“Kill This Love.”
Feet hit tape marks.
Hands snap at the same beat.
Hair turns on the same count.
Mics lift at the same breath.
Water placed at the same spot between songs.
In-ear checks by touch.
Stage techs nod once.
Pyro on a count.
Confetti on a cue.
Nothing left to chance.
This is what repetition buys.
Thousands of hours.
Routines that fire without thought.
Bodies that answer the count.
Repetition works.
It is honest.
It is slow.
I use something faster.
I install.
Not on a stage.
At home.
The system
In my house I choreograph too.
But I do not rely on endless repetition.
I use the biology of reward.
