i haven't seen hands like those in many years. The feeling of soft abrasive tissue on the surface and weighty like a ripe lemon. The hand was grasping the rail with gentle insistence, ready to let go but held firmly at the same time. It spoke of attachment and detachment in equal measure, with the experience to choose the right moment to do so written all over it. The hand was either holding on to the world or holding it up for all those present.

The arch spread out on the ceiling, it stood with authority and a sense of "foundation". As i passed below it, It looked down with purpose and no curiosity.

The ball rolled, because it must. The child reached for the ball in the shadow of a man who was suddenly present for no reason. At this time, the grass around their feet was perfectly green.

In the rocks of the cliff, the moss attach themselves. The sun attaches the light to the moss, feeding the stone with life, and the wind grazes about. The rock must feel alive then, i suppose.

A raindrop bounced.

A groove announced itself  near the corner of a mouth. Suddenly it had a twin, and they were lucky enough to appear together in harmony. They seemed like a logo saying signals were being transmitted from that location.