He didn’t hear the thud. He was focusing on his hands. These hands. His naked body was still. His window was open. The floor was still just dirt and ash. But his hands were changed.
They were glowing. He put them together heard the releasing sound. He touched his face. He held them as far away as he could. He brought them close until they were just a smudge of pink, a blur of possibility. He slowly fell forward and caught himself, with his hands. He sprung back up. He touched his back, eyes, hair, chest, dick, toes. He touched his desk. He closed his eyes and held his breathe.
Pawing at the paraphernalia of his life on his desk he felt the scissors and the plates, the pens, the stuff and things. He felt around on the bed and felt the book and the magazines. He turned and thrust his hands into the mound of clothes. He felt the roughs and the smooths. He felt the clean and the dirty. He shoved his clothes away and splashed in the gathered water, juice soda, tea, beer cocktail. He found paper.
If he felt the numbers he didn’t know. He felt his hair again. He toyed with it. He rubbed it on the back of each hand. The grease, the grating sensation of rubbing it together. It meant something. He felt his head again. He opened his palms and laid them flat on the floor.
He pressed as hard as he could with his left. Keeping his fingers stretched he slowly lifted it up and held it flat an inch off the floor. He put his right down, pressing lightly. He felt the fingernail. He felt the ash and the dust. He felt.