I'm a bit put off by museums that don't let you touch things. Oil paintings? They're leaping out, screaming, "Touch me! Feel my texture! Amber waves of grain? Sea billows rolling? My very consistency is part of my conveyance!"
I don't know how I could handle this. The Word of God? Millennia old? Can you imagine?
Fingers on the yellowy surface. Index finger tracing the lines penned so meticulously by a forefather--one of my spiritual ancestors.
Like the oil, the ink--when touched--becomes a part of you. And you...become a part...of the history...
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