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My objects are all to handle. They relate to the body and are there to be touched.

I was sitting on the couch and felt something sharp poking into my thigh. When I grabbed it, I saw it was glossy and sleek yet grainy and cold. I stood up and threw it in the garbage. It left a mark on my skin, dots buried in my leg following a round shape.
My fingertips followed the dented dots. It felt tingly but nice to stroke them. When I sat down again, I felt ultimate comfort: just me and a soft formless comfy cloud.
I felt very thankful for the little bottle cap.