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By ARTSHARKS ARTHouse

There were two of them, with five digits each. Long and lean, like those of a pianist’s, or a woodworker’s, or an artisan’s. Flesh-colored and tailored, ending in nails trimmed like crescent moons and glowing like polished animal tusks. They fiddled with the dials, waved through the air as she pirouetted and danced and rocked against the mic, they clutched at the speakers, at the mic stand, at the headphones blasting the melody in her ears. They stretched out to nobody and everybody, a silent screaming appeal for help, for liberation, for independence, for coexistence, for understanding—understanding of them and of herself—and for connection, a connection fostered by music and emotion and the invisible human ivory-colored wavelengths emitting from her two hands.

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