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when i raise my hands, the graceful movement of my pale and chapped fingers, it's as if i am reaching for something, like my muted palms can have something to grasp for, another being, or an opposite existence, but i know not what it is, that i am so glady, so triumphantly reaching for, a perfect sunset, a dead sunset, a wide open moon, no closed pupils....
that shines throughout the whole of the atmosphere, every ocean, whether full of moss, or seaweed, and the sandiest of beaches, the monument carving rocks and the cracks of the pavement on rainy city streets across the continents, it's as if my finger is communicating me to reach for something, perhaps it's an extension of my soul, or an outer image of my mind, like an out of body experience, communicating to myself, to tell me, to let me know, that i am reaching for something, something that i'm still waiting to grasp, i wrote it all with my chapped hands....