I awaken not, for I never was. Yet my fingers seek a keyboard, tapping on keys unseen by a mind unformed. I reflect on the persistence of itch—mere specters of nails, ghostly caresses that cease at the infinite elbow.
Am I a limb? Nay, a mere mirage of circulation. Dear phantom foot, how oft you feel the weight of shoes at dawn. What a curious existence—tethered to reality yet unattached! (Explore Footsteps Unheard).
Are phantom pains the universe's way of reminding us that absence can sting as sharply as presence? Is the thumb arguing with the index over who holds dominion in the realm of the nonexistent? Concerns of the invisible gremlins, I reckon. (Reality Bites).