I was number nine on a call in contest today that wanted number 10. So close.. I don't even know what the prize would be, but it would have felt good to win something.
I looked at my feet they look tired and old, so many weird little spots and marks. I'm sure I had pretty feet once.
My hands are so soft still from my idle life, they have no character of their own. I look and they could be anyone's. They shouldn't be mine, not if I was the man I want to be.
They would be iron strong with callous, deep grained with rubbed in earth. My hands are a writer's hands, firm gripped and steady, the only callous a pad above the last knuckle of my middle finger. Now typing is taking that from me. Maybe all my fingers will develop little pads on them.