Once I heard a person saying that hands must always be cold. Having noted the noble bravery of his straightforward conviction, I could merely picture him surrounded by statues, only slightly bearing any resemblance to living people. What can you do with those statues? Let them have the frozen hands, let it be. But things are capable of being worse: what if the icy-handed look at the world through immovable bleak eyes? It would be appalling. Anyway, this is all about hands only, not about the soul. Though it is not unreasonable to assume that the cold spell of heart derives from the frosty fingertips...
We have got used to complaining about things becoming rebellious and, eventually, out of hand. Maybe, an excuse for the naughty things does exist: they have already detected the smallest vibration of the air and the chilly wind upcoming. And the reason why they cannot stay in our hands as in a shelter is translucent if not transparent: that uncomfortable flow of changes streams out of the hands themselves. How do we fix this up? We admit the urgent need in warmth and... turn our palms to the sun.
The longer you look in the mirror, the blurrier your sense of possession becomes; the previously spot sense of self diminishes as well. For a period there emerges an opportunity to watch with intense eagerness every scratch appearing to mark the smooth reflecting surface. Women even joke sometimes that it's almost impossible to avert the gaze when you are in front of the mirror: "Would be standing so and peering so for the whole eternity..." And it has nothing to do with self-conceit, in my opinion. The thing is that you are promised to see yourself, and the opportunity attracts and tempts, but you again find yourself deceived having received nothing but a picture, of which there are thousands.
And if only you suddenly get the impression that something yours flashed through the tangible space of reality... grab!