The clips people are already watching.

Night street, one lit window — and you dancing in it.

The spice market, the chase, the bus roof — and it's you clearing it.

One waits with the roses. One walks by. Then the petals fall.

A giant 2027 in the desert — you climbing over the last digit.

The break, the defender in grey, and one dunk to end it.

One photo, the Peanuts title card rolls, and you're drawn in.

The spillway, the crowd, the run-up — then the backflip.

The face peels off — and there's a toddler holding it.

Hands to the lens. Hair flip. Addicted.

Arms out. Kick. Smooth.

Your hand on the glass. A panther looks back.

Photo 1 + photo 2 = the kiss.

"Dad, I got a new boyfriend."

Thunder. High kick. Home run.

Beep beep. Dance.

Blue wheel. Yellow car. Booyakasha.

"Wait, this dude is real??"

Big eyes. Stitches. Still you.

Alone in the shot. Then, them.

Coffee's ready. Sort of.

$1. $5. $50. Cheers.

Stroll in. Bite. Stare. Walk off.

Un cafecito riquito, riquito…

Buh buh buggin. Wizard hat on.

Heads turn. You walk in. Smirk.

One blade. New fit. Again.

Pop. Black and white. Hello, 30!

Smug shake. Big grin. Repeat.

Introducing your cat. Pro Max.

Mummy said Diwali ki safai.

Hips, arms, shoulders. On the beat.

Hop. Hop. Hop. Squished. Swap.

Abra… kadabra. And then there were two.

Bounce, glide, hands up. Baile charme.

Laugh, lunge, bounce low. Wipe me down.

Arms out. Hip bump. Knee lift. Lean in.

Walk out. Fire up. Lead the crew.

Meet your tiny self.

Focus. Fake. Spin. Kick.

The marigolds light the way home.

Phone on the window. Train pulls out. Run.

Zoom in. Caught mid-bite. Curtain.

Hold hands. Two-step. Kick. Arm up.

It's a movie, baby.

The close-up. The hand at the lens. The kick.

Hop, kick, turn — toc toc.

Hands on the hips. Sway. Bounce. Wave.

One plays the beat. One dances. Alors on danse.

“And I need you, and I miss you…” — now it's you at the wheel.

A toy on the window ledge. A tunnel. Your real car.

Guard up. Jab, jab, hook. Grandad's still got it.

Glasses off. Skull cap on. Different person.

Born today, already running away.

And the Ballon d'Or goes to… you.

Three friends, one selfie camera, “Oppa Gangnam Style.”

Your next opponent is… you.

2, 4, swipe — and the car's right behind you.

Hop out at the pump, dance like nobody's filming. Everybody's filming.

Centre stage, two dancers behind, and your dog nailing every head toss.

Marlon's street. Marlon's pool. Your face.

Your cat, standing up, grinning, clapping with tiny human hands.

Your dog, mid-argument, paws up: “Bad Times.”

Born retired: your baby, with a grown man's mustache.

The kick, the hop, the floppy skeleton arms — with you doing it.

The shush, the straw, the tiptoe — with you as the little dancer.

One photo, the whole band, live at the Tiny Desk singing “Outstanding.”

The dock, the sea, the sunset beach — you and your person in the “Raindance” video.

Your face as La Catrina — sugar-skull makeup, marigolds and candlelight.

One photo, any costume — watch yourself change into it.

“My ride is here” — you on a witch's broom, right outside the car window.

Your pet, home for Día de Muertos — through the marigolds, back to you.

One screams, one dances, then they swap.

One photo of your little one, and they're dancing to “Thank you babeh”.

Neptune square Mars — the dance everyone's doing, with you in it.

The orange wall, the mic, the routine — with you and your duo in it.

Mask on, lights purple — you're Nightwing.

“All my money is cash” — stacks of it, in your hands.

“State? … Hit the road, dude.” — now from your driver's seat.

闪身步, then 浪子踢球 — the 1990s dance tutorial, starring you.

The chandeliers, the silver cup, the “where she at?” — with you as the host.

The chip, the wait, the two sliding defenders — with you scoring it.

Day 1 of owning a Tesla Roadster — and it just took off.

Same crowd, same speaker, same red lights — you on the mic.

They turned. You couldn't shoot. Then — the hug.

Red jacket on — your pet leads the Thriller dance.

Legs first, then the full-costume reveal — right on the beat.

Pink satin, a corded phone… and someone in the doorway.

New student, gothic hall, purple magic — and you're a ghoul.