There’s a ghost in my right wrist. I have to see the man with the pins and he may say that my feet are the problem. Or maybe it’s the region above my spleen. East less salt, he might say. Or control the fire in your belly. In high-school, a boy told me that most of my organs were controlled in the webbed section between my thumb and pointer finger. He said this while pressing the skin between his fingers. I could feel my head throb less and I have to say that I believed him. And I believe him still. Pain is a good teacher. And the absence of it. (But the problem of presence is we can’t ignore it. And the problem with absence is that we can.) Still, it is hard to believe that such a small part of my own geography could govern such higher, more secretive organs.

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