You put your arm around her BODY PART as you get ready to finally say goodbye. It’s been a ADJECTIVE evening, and while you’re ADVERB exhausted, you know it was the ADJECTIVE thing for you to do to VERB and help with clean up.

She’s been having PLURAL NOUN lately with her PRESENT TENSE VERB. And as you put your arm around her BODY PART, you move your BODY PART to her BODY PART and say you think all of the PRESENT TENSE VERB has something to do with her NOUN.

Then, you do that thing you don’t always do but still often do when it’s a close NOUN and you feel their physical NOUN and you can VERB their NOUN with their NOUN. And then you share out loud what you’re VERB PRESENT TENSE from their physical NOUN. Because you have the ability to VERB what’s going on ADVERB.

But you don’t tell everyone about this ability. This ability is not a thing you VERB ADVERB.

It is an ability you keep close. Not out of fear. Or even self-doubt. More out of intimacy. Making choices on with whom you share it. You are such a public person. You have made a life and living out of making deeply personal art and work. You share so much of yourself with the world, that sometimes it’s nice to keep a little something for yourself and the people you love.

She goes downstairs with you so she can VERB a(n) APP to take you home to PLACE. While you wait for the APP to arrive, you ask permission to do some NOUN work on her BODY PART. She says, “AFFIRMATION.”

You hover your BODY PART in front of her BODY PART. You do what it is you do anytime you do this. You VERB into whatever NOUN allows you to VERB this kind of work.

But is “work” even the right word? Perhaps it is not work, but rather an art. Technique. Yes. Perhaps it’s a technique. But what even is a technique when you yourself don’t even have a name for this technique. Methodology. Modality. Thing. Even you don’t have a name for this thing—yes, that’s it, thing—that you’ve known for some 17 years you seem to innately know how to do.

You do the “thing” to her BODY PART, your BODY PART hovering over her BODY PART. But never touching. You always hover. Never touch. But you’re touching something. Call it NOUN or NOUN or something else ADVERB, but you can feel it, the NOUN, even though you can’t see it.

You still feel how it feels. And maybe that’s the same thing as feeling how something looks.

She says it VERB, the thing you’ve just done. You’re glad to be helpful. That’s always the ADJECTIVE goal. Your APP arrives, and you hug goodbye, and you walk outside.

You get in the NOUN, and say, “GREETING,” and then VERB with the feeling you’re having about the thing you just did. By the time you get to the PARKWAY, you’ve been going in circles about whence and why and how your ability to do this thing came to be.

At first, you start with a past life in PLACE. You often default to that one, given that you know you were a NOUN in that life. But that doesn’t feel right. As you start to VERB the parts of your inner knowing that tell you the stories your NOUN seems to VERB inside of you, you know that’s not the right life. You dig a little deeper, and then it VERB you. Boom. That’s right.

You know exactly what life.

And as you stare out the NOUN window and look out on the PLURAL NOUN as the NOUN passes by in the ADJECTIVE sky, you get full body chills, which is one of the ways your PLURAL NOUN and the NOUN and even your NOUN intimates to you that you’re either correct or in sync or on the right path. The full body chills continue. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Yes.

It’s quite profound, to know you are able to do this thing some part of you that you can’t technically see seems to have been carrying and remembering and holding for thousands of years. It has carried itself through centuries when this thing—this thing you innately know how to do—sometimes stayed quiet. Dormant. Clandestine from the light. And then you imagine there must have been lifetimes when it nudged itself to the surface. Cracked open a few gates.

You’ve often told people for and on whom you’ve done this thing that you have this inkling that one day, like several decades from now, this might be a thing you do more formally. Like you can picture yourself with a healing space on the side and back of the house that requires a separate pathway for people to come through past a brown wooden fence as they come inside.

You can picture yourself, probably fully gray or white by then—it’s unclear which—looking for ways to offer this thing a little more concretely. With a little more intention. Knowing. Depth.

It’s possible you’re picturing another lifetime entirely. Another one still yet to come.

But it feels too likely to be in this body, the vision you imagine. Sense. See with clear view.

The real NOUN here is how it always feels like the most ADJECTIVE NOUN to VERB this.

How can you ADVERB VERB to anyone else the things even you yourself can’t see?

You’ve never taken that much stock in HOLIDAY. Well, that’s not true. When you were younger, you most certainly did. Promised yourself the stroke of TIME OF DAY was the be all end all of your chances for VERBAL NOUN. But eventually, you let that all go. You realized the calendar had more to do with popes and emperors than time itself. Or rather the planet. The earth. The pulse at which is beats and breathes. Eventually, you took the ADJECTIVE calendar, your own ancestry, and the seasons of the planet itself.

To you, the renewal is in the breath.

And still, you’re PRESENT TENSE VERB what might happen PREPOSITION you give yourself a little more space—breath—to surrender even more deeply into the things you cannot see. What kind of NOUN might you more ADVERB VERB PREPOSITION you leap like that?

It’s not a NOUN, per se, but it’s something. A kind of intimacy with your NOUN. Or perhaps a NOUN to the universe that you realize your NOUN is actually a kind of body part itself.

We have NOUN bodies that we cannot VERB with the ADJECTIVE NOUN. But they are there. Hovering around us like my BODY PART when I PAST TENSE VERB it over her BODY PART. But never touching. I never actually touch. And maybe that’s the riddle here.

It’s not just the things that we cannot see. It’s the things that we cannot physically touch.

But we’re touching them, all the same. We are touching everything at every instance.

All the time.

Our skin is touching the air. We are shape-shifting particles by the millisecond.

We are elastic—all of us.

This whole ADJECTIVE NOUN, a BODY PART of NOUN.