By Anna
If you look hard enough, memories already dot the skin of the careless. Short, white scars bridge your knuckles and mark the time you spent picking up “Quarters” in middle school. Longer lines trudge up from your knees from when you were stubborn enough to lift 120 pounds by the sharp metal channel. The itchy sunburn and swollen spider bite are fleeting; old memories can’t be felt by a feathery finger touch. Some old memories demand to be seen: a bullet, a car crash, a fire. Others take a while to materialize calluses, laugh lines, and a childhood spent in the sun. Your body is a temple, every milestone a festival, and this artform takes a lifetime of homage.