Interior of the hand. Sole that has come to walk only on feelings. That faces upward and in its mirror receives heavenly roads, which travel along themselves. That has learned to walk upon water when it scoops, that walks upon wells, transfiguring every path. That steps into other hands, changes those that are like it into a landscape: wanders and arrives within them, fills them with arrival.
My happiness is tied to none. It is with me now. On my palm!
I started my campaign out of a Trader Joe's bag with a bunch of printed palm cards and an idea.
I have a lot of fun with guns, especially the M-16, but my favourite is my little .22. It fits nicely in the palm of your hand. I do limit myself to blanks.
I'm boiling about the rainforests being chopped down to make disposable chopsticks. I'm boiling about the fact that we have palm oil put into every single one of our substances.
The profoundest thoughts of the philosophers have something trickle about them. A lot disappears in order for something to suddenly appear in the palm of the hand.
I measure in my palm and use my eyes to estimate amounts; a tablespoon is a full palm of dried spices.
The world has shifted to the palm of our hand, or a tablet. We hadn't been investing in 'Quicken' that way.
