I tried to write about her hair in philosophy. My gaze was drawn to it, in the stiff silent room. The only thing that ebbed warmth. The fluorescent lights tried to steal its glow but the hair had an effect. The light bounced off the tight curls, forced back to the cracks within white plastered walls. My hand gripped my pen in restraint; to feel, to touch once. If I could only reach the back of her chair. But my hand gripped my pen harder, my fingers would be invaders of a land not meant to be pillaged so thoughtlessly. So I am restrained like a ship against a heavy current, I can only worship a land outside of my reach.