Your fleeing hands woke up. Outbreaks of random crosses. The legs are detached from the thighs; they run each on their own; they shout, they jump, to freedom they sing with a certain crazy joy that will never know moorings again; neither of meat, nor brick, nor rope or link. Their legs run freely, the air that they reach with their arms around the waist of the air carries the rhythm of the invisible dance of the air.
Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.