I touch the smooth paper of the notebook, all blank and waiting for my words. There is nothing else that feels like paper on the fingertips, so smooth and fast, a racetrack for my pen. I touch the pen, gripping it between my finger and thumb and I feel its hard barrel unyielding, reliably delivering up my words. I touch the floor with my bare feet, oh how I hate to wear shoes, because then my feet touch scratchy wool or claustrophobic nylon or sweaty leather. I prefer to be able to wiggle my toes on the ground and feel my toes spread apart from each other, each one sending its little pad of smooth cool glassy tile up to the receptors in my brain. My whole body is one big toucher, if I try I can feel the separate red hairs of my sweater against my arms and the elastic tightness of my bra straps and the soft folds of my pants waving around my legs. I am alive and I am here because I can feel.