At this point we have all the time in the world. Backwards, years away and the hands are still my own. The dimensions have changed along with the proportions. A rash prediction out from the void. Blind hands, as they should be, ever scar in place and just as it should be.
Journeys end, back again, same body, different person.
The box is exactly the size it needs to be, drag out the words, torture the syllables and see how it sounds. Stand away and pose and gesture. If the tone is exactly right then it is precisely wrong.