‘Touch something,’ my writing students always hear me say. Touch something made of pressure, sand, and soil. Touch whatever gives wood birth. Rub something that puckers your mind or steam-irons your tongue. Cross particles with pores and molecules with nerves. Berries. Splinters, beads, bolls. No swiping a polymer surface, only to change the name, because they stole you to make it. No human laboratory, coated in unmet needs. Hear what you feel. Leave your skin out under the elements an extra second; just an extra. Smell what dented canister leaks out your last remembered strawberry. See what slow tango climbs from the dusty turntable.