Out here in the void, a hand (mile)d in close to Earth. Here it knows weeps and shifting pressures, the relative nearness of living breath. Sensation, but more! A finger strikes ground, enough of an ard to create mountains of plains and uproot plates. It tries a finer touch, to roll around an oat grain, to caress a cheek, but fields scrape bare and bodies bloody. It recedes and lives only in stories. Not better for knowing, always wanting a better inspection, accepting its place as nothingness.