Excuse my filthy fingertips,dabbled in charcoal as they mourn a few dead thoughts , unsaid,consumed,unnecessary ,expired ,or just..thoughtless thoughts.Those fingertips can be hot-tempered,expressing thrills and shivers in infinite black lines.they touch,feel,skip ,and jump with hesitant moves like an odd untameable tango dance that defies the leader. 

Come lick my fingertips,it’s no magic .but they’d whisper things to you.You may run like a madman,or be still like Zarathustra in the cave..but y’know…the madman has written about Zarathustra once.

And if you must ; wash my hands,and let me be.