Nerve ends read our universe. Oxford
philosophers write whole books, but favoured themes don’t touch on the finer
sensations of April rain. Skin keeps cataloguing hard and soft. They delight
more in deception than truth. Books feel like paper, but what about blindfold?
Stanford scientists have a firm grasp of surface: metal grain, flush of
fittings. Their imprint’s felt all over computers. Vienna psychologists stress effect. Is touch
crystallizing, impatient? While Sorbonne poets leave us sensing, this could
last a lifetime. They compare fire to planetary flowers, ice to the end of
knowledge. Their charming deceptions are often spoken of.
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