In the quiet realm where memories of touch linger, I remember the caress of the sun on my fingertips. Not present now, but felt in echoes, like the ghost of a wind that once danced through the leaves.
The truth hides beneath layers of perception, much like a phantom limb that knows itself only through memory. Is it a loss, or a gain, to feel what is not there?
I ponder the essence of existence beyond the corporeal form. Am I defined by what I possess, or what I perceive?