The wind is touching me in all sorts of places, tousling my hair and caressing my forearms. I’m unable to place the sensation, nor judge how material it is. I once read that the human body does not have receptors for wetness. Rather, we have receptors for temperature. And this is how we place the sensation of wetness, as a familiar pattern of temperature-change across the body.
I wonder then at the wind.
Looking at my forearm, there’s nothing visible to betray it. Not even the hairs move it’s so gentle.
And yet I’ve the unmistakeable feeling of the wind.
Sticky keys on the keyboard. Muted, rather. Like there’re particles within key-space which mush on click, creating an awkward sensation while I write.
Hyphenated words. Something special to hyphenated words. Something special to the devices that allow you to stretch rules, stretch language.
Parentheses and commas and italics and bolds and hyphens 1
I’ve just seven hours to the day left.
- and footnotes.↩