This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to living or dead people, whether in the real world or the fictional world, is purely coincidental. This includes people in purgatory and the illiterate. Even after this, you find a coincidence, I admire your imagination, and would advise you to write disclaimed fiction.
Foomla, Grozba and Fajotla got around to a conversation yesterday. One round of coffee was over; the caffeine too decided to join the conversation, eagerly — as a catalyst rather than as a participant.
“Oh, I don’t want to talk of that,” Foomla cried, “If that’s the conversation, I am out of here.”
“Between us, is there anything else we can talk about?” asked Grozba.
Foomla became animated, “It’s done to death, this conversation about stiff hands. It doesn’t often mean anything and makes me more depressed talking about it. Screw those therapists who want everything out in the open, as a cure for stiff hands.”
“Oh, I have got used to not using my hands for a long time now, it doesn’t quite bother me. I don’t even seem to notice my own stiff hands, leave alone yours.” Fajotla added, changing the altitude of the conversation.
It continued for a while, the conversation, but a conversation of bits of nothings, the caffeine giving up somewhere along the way.
In their heads, all three pondered their stiff hands and the wares that they had built in the past. Random images flicked rapidly through their minds, of wares created, appreciated and criticised. Three artists, once sought after, were now creating commodity or nothing at all.
Stiff hands, as you may have gathered, don’t quite allow art to happen. Ironically, the non-conversation about stiff hands, ended up being therapy.