Robert cannot imagine his hands but he knows well the pain they cause.
In the attic, assembling a flat-packed shelving unit, his hands move with their own justification. They reach for a screw rocking by the knees, or for the drill placed upon an empty, untraveled suitcase. Robert does not pretend to control them.
And even now, pausing between typed words, they tilt and sway like that screw, or stretch out into the air for the drill. They remember and play like a dog dreaming of the cat, wagging it's tail furiously with its eyes shut so tight.
Robert does not know his hands for they identify as some other pieces of flesh, some other strings of muscle and jut of bone. His hands would not think at all about hurting themselves; of cutting the flesh, knotting the muscle or grinding bone to dust. Between them lies not this or any thought, only dry dick, but Roberts hands are most aware. They understand the larger picture and are not shy of chasing the lips down the tracks, of falling between the teeth who wantonly masticate the nail.
Robert will not remember his hands tonight when he loses all light behind some rolling elevated grassland, the sun taking bow for the Continent. They will go from him into tight, denim pockets; the thumb on each hand snuggled between the index and medius like a cigarette, though one already stubbed and black at the end. In the dark the wind will howl and blind Robert, sentencing him forever to the blackness of night, for he will have nothing with which to shield his eyes.