These fingers? They were made to touch you, made to trace the line of dust from your scalp to your shoulders, find your hot life lines under the plastic netting of a farmer's market booth. These hands, they were made to massage you, that whole length of you. They're goddamn strong from experience; I've soothed thousands of muscles, broken down hundreds upon hundreds of knots. With you and your sore neck baby, this is when it will count. Let me know when.