Her hands were clammy, damp, cold, dank, and somehow imperceptibly deformed, flawless only in the ways that mattered, untouched by touch, touched only by the memory of forgotten transgressions, and in the midst of it all, still she clutched the cheap, synthetic paint brush. Her hands were in constant conversation with that brush, her fingers finding no other recourse than to content themselves as the petty elaborators of concepts long since made crystal clear. Each finger had a different plan for making the hand, the brush, the girl and the painting great, for lifting them to heights heretofor undreampt by the likes of any one of them individually. Each of them, in resigned concession to their Heroic Individualisms, knew it had to be a group effort, and it was the girl who had to be the foremost instrument in their machinations. But the hour grew late, and the painting's impatience along with it, and as it sat at its perch atop the easel, dripping with anxiety, it could do little more than serve as a reflective device for each squirming digit's, appendage's, or organism's spectacular ego respectively.