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Hand thing.

  This doesnt make sense for shit, but it sounds really awesome.                                                                

                                                                          Hands: Gateway to the World, Passage to the Soul

                Hands are the most telling part of a person’s body.  Common intuition paints the eyes as the windows of the soul, their glass transparent to the heart, but our hands carry the collective wounds of all our years, the stress of our scars, the weight of our burdens. The severity or brusqueness of a simple touch can mean worlds of expression.  A caress, love.  Impact, anger.  Slithering, seduction.  Crawling, diffidence.  My own hands, having done it all, are a portal to my soul.  The ease at which they can support my weight shows years of experience on the football field, the tenderness and at the same time aggression shows the mastery of a bass guitar virtuoso. From just the sight, hands conjure up memories, thoughts, feelings, and the potential they carry, to perhaps make beautiful music, or a magnificent sculpture.   Looking at my own hands, I see ursine hair, plucking shimmers from the air and delivering them back to the world in luminescent reverberations, and tan skin displaying the gifts of the Sun.  I see bruises and nicks, reminders of the battles these hands have fought on the football field.  I see the hand of my love, locked in mine, the saccharine scent of her casting me head over heels.  I see a friend of mine, fingers spread, their fingertips pressed to mine, mouth agape in awe of the size of the spiderlike hand splayed before them.   Hands are our link to the world, our physical connections to the past, and our lifelong companions.  A moment’s reflection can reminiscence on a lifetime of use.

Another hand thing:
Just fuck, dude.


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