A breeze, moving across the world. It’s warm. The kind of full, heady warmth you might feel from a breeze on a hot day, where even the cooling wind is overtaken by the sweltering warmth. This breeze cares not for the temperature surrounding it, a cool, crisp night. It floats along, a warm hand in the dark, cold night. The breeze runs along a body. Skin flexes and tenses to meet it. The warm hand of the air runs it’s fingers over it, smoothing down the imperfections, caressing the flesh with its warmth. The breeze is slow, but constant, never leaving the skin for even a moment. It wraps itself around, slides up it, pushes against it, but never lets go. The flesh stirs, growing to accomodate more of the breeze, to lets its warmth cover more and more of its mass. The heat of the wind makes the skin tingle, and in turn, the weight keeps the breeze grounded. Delicate, invisible fingers trace the movement of the body, entering its nooks, crannies, and smallest spaces, exploring without eyes or ears, and finding everything all the same.