My hand, are you an extractive institution, the palpitator of the prohibited without consent, the weeder of functionality for the belly and urge you serve, the flattener of crosstalk, pushback, checks and spars. Are you the tentacle testing dryness of fertile soils fiddling futility. My hand, are you the conductor of fingers at sleep, slight of hands and sneaky Freudian slips, do you slide under tables fondling brown paper envelopes or stockings alike, protruding the questionable ever unanswerable in the shades and twilight of movements in largesse distracting from the emptiness of words. My hand, do you carry callouses as cradles to civilization building of master’s bate when imagining lands of others to caress yet ever care for by exploitation, hand-eye coordination and umping silences of labor unspeakable outside the gloss of design and architectured relations in empires handled by history. My hand, do you slap, slither, slit and slide. Do you hide in the palm and knuckles of a fist do you frequent trebles or bass or frequencies of grace. Are you daily an absolute beginner and touch the nascency of companionship with tender tips?

—animasuri’24