The history of touch leaves me naked. Recalling a story I attempted to write, I find that I'm trying to pick up feelings of levity so as to show off that I'm young and able. My light-heartedness was something I cherished, but some people won't be told that everything's okay, just because we think it is.
'There's a man with a flag and he leads the procession.'
I think I deserve to be a little angry, but I just don't know who to be angry with. I'm not immune to the making of false accusations. Blaming God is not to be done lightly; for that is just what an intelligent beast would get us to do that intends to keep us in subjection. Or a pair who find it amusing to watch a stalker walk round and round the bushes they're in. In other words, my light-heartedness is gone for good.
Placing your finger on someone else's belongings is something you might do if they're a friend. On the other hand, some had instincts they were made to feel ashamed of for the rule of not touching not being one that could be dispensed with, without throwing the baby out with the bathwater.
And then touch came, but at extra cost. Of course, without a special stick we need to find ourselves a cloth. And while that was the end of the story, the lighthearted boy would not have believed that in the future we would be discussing gender equality as something that is yet to come.