i press my fingers against it. feel the cool indifference. not quite flexibility not quite resistance.
i slide my hand across the surface, feeling for cracks and imperfections. alive beneath my palm this superficial disaffection. obscured from sensation, saved from insurrection. you can look but don't touch, don't feel, we haven't time for interconnectedness.
if I lay my hand just right against the walls of experience, I can feel the vibrations of others, artificially estranged and deleterious. A funny thing, the ways we are taught to unfeel the human imprint. Carefully atomized reality, mediated existence. I over other, detachment's precondition.
Standing at the threshold, pressing against the surface. Searching for contact, reciprocal purpose.