I am the right fist of a man. A Monday to Friday man, an office man, a man at a computer. A man with panda rings around his eyes and dandruff in his hair. But he doesn't care.

I am a blogging fist. But to blog I have to unfold, and as I unfold I die. I become just a hand. Fingers tap-tap-tapping like any others. All for the cause of this blog. Just to post here I die each day, trusting the memory of my fingers.

But I do not forget myself: back my fingers curl, and I am a fist reborn. He knows all this, the man, but he lets me do it all the same. What choice does he have? Everyone fears the actions of their own fist. Or at least, everyone who knows himself and his fist.