My arms flit through the air, as if I no longer control them.

The tips of my fingers languidly, yet gracefully dance above me.

In a cursive flow they outline, "WHY?".

I gaze at it, I can see the strength of the word written in merely air.

Leisurely I reach for it, grasping ever so gently at the intangible.

Slowly, and to my dismay, I realize, "Why?" will never be that of a tangible form.