“Again?”, she cried in anguish as the sky exploded into a trillion, separately identifiable, but nameless colours. I just had “Hands”. What about “Brakes”? Is this website not going to let me write about that but only “Hands”. Where is the variety? How is it that others have managed to access the helicopter with the brakes and the whatever else is on the next page. Me, all I get is hands, hands, hands. I would hand it to you and request you give me a hand, but all I can do is hand it over to the other side.
Hands are delicate. Hands are tools. Hands have little aliens living inside them. The finger moves,, joints fidget, and stars are born in galaxies far away. They trundle on, moving, undulating, redshifting, both galaxies and fingers, hands moving, creating the next layer of the universe.
Hands are delicate, amazing. Hands are tools. Hands have little aliens living inside them which whistle in the solar winds in moments of deep abstraction. The joints quiver as the alien tool moves, writing what comes, typing and fidgeting, bending and yoga-izing. Here is the mover for the start of the next layer of the universe.
Solar Flare
Hands in the soil, fingers feeling the pulse of the earth.
build a castle, tear one down, comfort me, knock me out, play the song, stop the show, dangle me, let me go
Her hands have diamonds pulsing blue, ripples of skin, soft and sagging with years, sliding over bone, decorated by the years.
“Again?”, she cried in anguish as the sky exploded into a trillion, separately identifiable, but nameless colours. I just had “Hands”. What about “Brakes”? Is this website not going to let me write about that but only “Hands”. Where is the variety? How is it that others have managed to access the helicopter with the brakes and the whatever else is on the next page. Me, all I get is hands, hands, hands. I would hand it to you and request you give me a hand, but all I can do is hand it over to the other side.
Hands are delicate. Hands are tools. Hands have little aliens living inside them. The finger moves,, joints fidget, and stars are born in galaxies far away. They trundle on, moving, undulating, redshifting, both galaxies and fingers, hands moving, creating the next layer of the universe.
Hands are delicate, amazing. Hands are tools. Hands have little aliens living inside them which whistle in the solar winds in moments of deep abstraction. The joints quiver as the alien tool moves, writing what comes, typing and fidgeting, bending and yoga-izing. Here is the mover for the start of the next layer of the universe.
Hands in the soil, fingers feeling the pulse of the earth.
Hands can build bridges or walls, start wars or caress lovingly. Our choices make them instruments of peace or harbingers of chaos.
put them all over
this
lost
cause
wave off
the inky
black
ghosts
silent storytellers, bearing witness to our lives. each scar, each callus, a chapter in our unwritten biography…