Hands

“Once every five minutes or so,” he said, “I looked down at my hands and see nothingness–no matter what fills them. I once looked down, saw them preforming a Travis pick on an old, homemade classical guitar, one of those moments ten-year-old-me only dreamed about. While not the most dexterous, they still beat out music of a critically-acclaimed sort, and my mouth accompanied it to the empty room.

“I encountered them designing, creating, blistering, touching faces–ok, you name the rest for brevity’s sake.

“Only when drunk could I really laugh about it; in fact, looking at my hands and finding them a curiosity, finding something in them, was my first indicator of intoxication; in swoops, they conducted that famous line, though out of its original context, “doesn’t really matter to me.””

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