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Quemaduras
Closing his eyes, he reaches out his hand and feels. He feels the texture, the rise and fall of the terrain, lines criss-crossing at various angles and various thickness. It is like bark, he thinks, of a small tree. The surface has no discernible pattern. It is not smooth yet the undulations are certainly not bumps; they are more like ridges. He wonders at its softness, its warmth, and he passes his fingers over it until his palm comes into contact as well, his whole hand now feeling, touching.
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