He had, with fingers calloused and hard, examined certain things. He had looked into them with these stubby thick things and found that, on the inside, they were warm. Not everything was warm, of course, for not everything is warm, but many of the things he had examined had been warm. Some of them though had been cold. These thrilled him the most, the cold ones. He had felt inside the cold for some time, thinking and touching and feeling all the while. He had always had fingers, he thought, though he did not know for certain. There are always things one cannot remember, thus there are things that one cannot know for certain. Not that memory is certain, or that that is at all what he thought. Memory for him was a pleasure, like feeling, and it could strike upon all sorts of wonderful, unknown things. It too can feel warmth and coldness, dryness and hardness. Memory too is calloused and thick and hard. It cannot always find things to feel, though, and thus it too gropes blindly about, striking sometimes upon something, sometimes not.
6 years ago