My hands haven’t trembled in the longest time. I miss that feeling, not of settled fears and soiled familiarity but of reaching out with uncertainty, of electricity and promise and the sense of something other, ready, attention present below your prints. Moments yet unsavored, sensations to be delivered by osmosis and stored within your veins. That explosion of not knowing, Midas’ promise within your fingers, strange alchemical urges pushing adrenaline surges all throughout your body. Bloody and distinct, pulsating quivered impulses shaking you so hard that surrender sounds like bliss. I miss that feeling, of reaching out for something.
Nic
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.
A Few Short Words 
Say Something