“Its members strove with the darkness, the primary body of its unthinkable extensions still fully 9/10ths asleep. Taking its cues from some twilight awareness, it groped in the endless between where neither understanding nor awareness shall find purchase. In its gestures and searchings it appeared enminded proximal to itself, animated as if from within by its own primitive accord. Driven by a sense of something that cannot quite be thirst yet is one of its extension, the hand was the sensing body of some prehistoric, animalian force. It was trying, in the dire and surely boundless spaciousness for some near and half-remembered quarry, that glass. The monster of it sought the vessel of the waters which it could neither properly frame nor consume upon discovery. No matter; the driving impetus was bold and ancient. Soon, its fingers found the object it was seeking. But finding it, in perfect union with the moment, it did not pick it up, for what use to a -hand- is a glass of water? No, it plunged long fingers fast within, there finding wet despair, for surely this was the way to drink? What other could there be? Having neither mouth nor eyes, the hand’s mind was roots and branches; yet her fingertips lacked mouths, and the splash of the cold water was as shocking as its failure to satisfy the think pulses of that distant thirst that came from somewhere far beyond itself, across gaps and distances whose very bodies were as unimaginable as ascents to heights that must destroy even the sage or messiah.”

— a wrist