She says, with an innocent mouth, and watery eyes: "How do people get to be so fucked up? She looks at her hands. They open. Palms facing the skies, and she looks into them. She sees.

She sees people growing with little hearts inside them. She sees these hearts soft. Soft and tiny. She sees that these hearts, all these hearts, need to be held, every now and then, from early on, all along. Held with both hands, even though one can do, but one can't do. Both hands, letting the weight free between two.

Some, hands are cut off. Them, need to grow their hands again. Hold, heart.

Some hands rough. Can build building. Not hold heart. Too rough.

Some hands pointing at all sorts of things, waving off all sorts of things. Them hands need to calm down.

Some big hands, made for crushing. Not good near heart. Not yet. Not yet until practice with a feather first.

Some hands play guitar, saxophone, piano. But not remember heart. To hold it in both hands, is the sound that soothes (the sound of softness).

Some hands learnt all intricate things. Can heal hearts with a blade, but not without one. Too clumsy. Don't know where to start, where to go, with others, or own.