Sunken into her back, the grooves if a thousand longing fingers, searching for the void that keeps their knuckles swaying from space to space. Cast into their own worlds by battling families, the finger prods its way forward through holes in the spectrum, searching for connection with the flesh that quenches their touch "The perfect lips that glisten with envy and caresses their wounds from travels". Once found the finger strokes then leaves. His way is not clean, but his method is sound.