Why do we like the feel of smooth plastic, especially when the edges are rounded and the object slides across your palm like a piece of silk? Something about it feels like skin, but -somewhere in the rational part of your brain -you know that is merely the warmth of your hand. In essence, as you touch the plastic, you touch yourself. Literally, you and the object are as one.
When its warm heart beats, yours beats a little faster too. When it is excited, so suddenly are you. This thing has no smell and no taste, and yet it feels so wondrously alive. Every vibration pumps through your veins and you do not need to imagine the little lives trapped inside, each aching to reach out and touch you.
Much like you, this object is light and heavy, a thing to be both worshipped and reviled --only the greatest and the lowest cultures could ever lay claim to such magnificent importance --and now you both are as gods: mysteriously always available but somehow always too busy for the quotidian vicissitudes of life.
When you hold the object up to your cheek, it is an act of prayer; a true devotion. The weight in your hand feels just right and yet too much. The soft whisper in your ear is really just the air around you, pulsating to the same brief heartbeat. The warmth is really just your warmth, mingled with the unseen world outside. The stars could be falling, but if it’s not happening in your hand, do the stars really fall?
Everybody wants you, but nobody takes the time, until they really need you.
Regarding Object Writing http://www.spencermichaud.com/2012/10/songwriting-101-writing-from-experience.html#.VCLC4RY2Xct