He unfolded a silver wrapper to what looked like preposterous chocolate to the fingering minds.

Fingering minds. Flickering and vague, forgetful and fickle. They don't commit but give up and search anew, nothing discovered with each conquest.

It is in this context that I begin to unravel what is always there.

There is a piece of silver covered chocolate, silver like any other.
I think of files and files of chocolates in refrigerators, so eager to be eaten but the thought of eating them is so absurd and distant at that stage that it adds to the titillation.

Repression heightens desire. There is nothing less edible than a nudist colony. Do cannibals devour the clothes too? This is the last taboo.

By the time you unpeel the silver wrapper, or the clothes, crackling and unwrapping and fumbling over buttons, your mind is made up. You're not turning back, no matter how melted, swollen, green and puckered the insides are.

What freezing tanning bed has this particular bar of Cadbury Fruit and Nut, staring at me right now, been simmering in for all its life? How many trucks did it drive in to get to me? How many shops has it been in, how many people have eyed it and went for something else? Or else just picked one of its brothers and sisters, stacked uniformly beside it.

The only mystery we allow ourselves in the supermarket: why do we choose one same thing over another?

My mind is the fingering kind. My hands give commands to the brain. When I touch something with my fingerprint, the brain hurries to catch up and the result is often infelicitous.

The chocolates were preposterous. This chocolate is preposterous. The brown skin is a long-brimming august tan. The nuts are inviting bumps, as humped as the best breast and buttock. The raisins are eager organs, activated and juicy in our mouths but wrinkly and recoiled under the brown contraceptive.

I wish my brain would catch up. I wish my body would be as contained and ready.

This is my manifesto to all who live: Your fingerprint is all you have, but it doesn't have to have all of you.

This is my manifesto to all who live: Look to the dead. Their fingerprint becomes them. Their gravestone is all they need, the rest is blanked out and uniform and calm.

This is my manifesto to all who live: Your motor skills will be your end.