there is this thought that swarms between my fingers and my door handles. there is this notion that all things connected are intertwined. and these things, as fruitful as they may seem, are false. a figment in my own perception of how i think we should rotate. a perception of integration that, in a few words, can completely derail reality from desire. there is this idea on the sides of my thumbs, calloused from thinking of it too often: an idea that one receives what another wishes to be given. we are loved the way the ones loving us yearn to be loved. the affection we receive is that of a mirror of what they want. this callous hardens with each moment until it becomes a wall. an animation of something staying perfectly still. we speak so clearly in our attempts to tip the scale one way or another. but there is the swarming of these moments where what you give is what you get. one, simple, pure moment of equality. a golden ratio of intent and regurgitation: we place our hands out, opened wide, full of our own bits to the flame and we receive a hand full back. no burns, no blisters, no empty handed response. a simple passing chance that allows us to neither inhale or exhale. you needn’t air in this moment, you needn’t the sense of left, of right, of inside or out. because in this numbing sense of bliss there is a revival of passion. and passion, that is the idea. that is the thought. the hive that replenishes each unit of coming and going, the wall that resettles at any given chance on either side. but also the notion of humility. on the sides of each thumb, the tips of my fingers are walls of dead skin that are devoted to this intent. they are constantly pushing against it, forcing passion to overlook the rest of what’s left.