fingerprint

Deep in the dermis of the outstretching hands, called upon for simultaneous protection and protraction from and to the ultimate dowry of life, there are these retes. To each end, these structures admit to a softening of such a plastic world, an asinine acrylic audoban. Undulating and underestimated, the impermanence of our existence is tracked and tricked into submitting to regularity of rogue. Under no accepted pretenses, though, do we lay out our outstretched hands and not leave a slight slough of singularity. Only one hand can be on one point at any given moment and nothing can prevent nor permit the passage of preformed, unspoken energy. Yet what if the point was nothing of a horizontal issue but rose and chose to expand and expunge the riot against inculpability to find two hands at one intersection? What if two read twelve and the skin upon skin fleshed nothing but radical community? I see the multiplicity of hands which you gave to my life as a guidepost forward and postscript backward. It is of no good use for me to deny how incurable I would be against the ills of self-disregard had I not been imbibed with sturdy and stately figures of peace, protest and patient penance for me and because of me. Although my retes are determined by design of a genetic disembodiment from macrocosm understanding, my print is evolving as to involve hands of greater need and hearts of grander know. This, I must admit, is the only reason to persist in breath. Without recourse to the vapors of the past, I see the print of others consistently considering the coalescing of them with them not, an act that is infinitely beautiful. How can that influence be the strongest pronouncement? What must I denude to allow those revolutionary retes to be real?