Yasunari Kawabata's Palm-of-the-Hand Stories could be my key to my own heart. Palmists! Why didn't I think of that…Yasunari Kawabata's Palm-of-the-Hand Stories could be my key to my own heart. Palmists! Why didn't I think of that? They are short, like echoes inside that sound fainter as time passes, but are important enough to leave its footprint (handprint?) behind. Fucking haunting me kinda faint. "Oh." Much later: "Oh!" Yeah, he's got me. The eyes as windows to the souls thing that I like no matter how cliched it is (staring! you can't look away 'ship WRECKS), the Mona Lisa secret smiles, millions of tiny little taste buds on the tip of the tongue, heart three sizes bigger, the echoes like a bell going off... In the palm of the hand (hence the "palmist" as poet)... If I had had a poetic soul it would've been this. I just wanna touch. I don't want to own everything. That's too big. This is touching for the unpossessive, the alone who aren't lonely when they can remember how to listen to this. If it's in there for me to ever reach any of it... That whole key thing is that, really. I kinda got this idea that if I'd know myself better I'd have a larger wingspan (for me) and armspan (for others). I should've been poetic. I should have been a dancer. I could've been a contender, ma! What Kawabata has that I really, really need (and why I'm thinking he might be my favorite writer ever) is the sitting in the palms of the hands, not grasping, just being... touched. Yeah, that thing. I think that's it. It's more than that, though. Kawabata is fucking huge, to me. If I don't say that these stories are painful, horny, funny, shocking, sweet, tender, moving.... My vocabulary of relating is limited. I just wanna touch. I don't own those words. That's not what went through my mind as I read and said "Well, damn!". I laughed! I sighed. I love Kawabata. Okay, I'm moved. It just feels like there's more to that, underneath, that I'll get later, when …