Here, I am reminded again and again, of my hand, clammy, limp, and hidden in the shadow of my sleeve - curled-up bony shell, holding only itself and silence. Memories - sharp touches. When seen, they flee their detailed homes, and dull like the soft end of my pencil. Under my desk, a willow tree sketch. Aching hand, I let it unfurl, trace one finger in my palm's crease, admiring texture, and not much else.