A finger is bent double, its second joint, sat just behind the nail of his fourth digit, strains under the pressure. And its grease has slipped to the surface. Each capillary swelled, fatter at the skin towards a reddish blush around the nail. The finger is pressed hard as it takes a second touch, one more, and a dull shine falls in its wake. The grease has slipped further. Another swipe and another scratch, words upended and scrolled. And there is a pattern in the grease, of misshapen circles slumped over one another – each crevice is clear, walled like a maze by the fat skin of his thumb. Each print of the finger is an action recorded, and maybe he is guilty. So prosecute the surface for oily slaps and may it be dissected as evidence. Objects have a tendency of telling the truth. Each one has a minor version of history, yes, a personal history bruised with action. They record our dancing skin with their own. It is an object like any other, all we must do is observe that dull shine in its wake.