when we were still kids, we love to dip our fingers into shallow tins of watercolours: red, blue, yellow, orange, green, purple. we would then use our coloured fingers to create pictures of flowers, trees, butterflies and birds on to the white virgin drawing papers given by our teachers.
You ever hear that song “The Myth of Fingerprints” by Paul Simon? What do you think it’s about? I kinda figured it’s about us thinking we’re all so different and not realizing how interconnected and similar we actually are, as humans, across cultures and countries. “There’s no doubt about it, it was the myth of fingerprints, I’ve seen them all and then they’re all the same.”
Everyone’s fingerprints are different, is what they always told me. But today I met someone with the exact same fingerprints as me. We both got really freaked out. What does it mean? we wondered. Are we soulmates? Clones? Long-lost conjoined twins? Needless to say, it was very disconcerting.
(ps this is fiction)
I have ten finger prints and none of them are the same.Fingerprints are verry usefull to a lot of people around the world,especially investigators.
Investigators use fingerprints for crime scense’s.If someone ever got murdered the investigators would look for fingerprints and take other people’s fingerprints.
i have 10 fingerprints, they are completely different from anyone elses fingerprints. wouldn’t you know that when all those people try to be the same, they will never succeed, not because they can’t figure out how to act, but because their fingerprints will always be different.
They were everywhere – an invasion of fingerprints, the story of a lifetime writ in dust in the ancient house. The end of a life, what a story they would tell. They are the marks of the many
They were everywhere – an invasion of fingerprints, the story of a lifetime writ in dust in the ancient house. The end of a life, what a story they would tell. They are the marks of the many
you are at the tip of my fingers, the whisper on every word i speak. you are the mist that fogs my windowpane, one lone fingerprint on icy glass. where have you gone?
Why is it the same word? She cried. So hard. COCK. Cock! Oh my fucking god! I want in your cock sized phone pocket where the dimmed lice keep their trophies of the Egyptian princess.
My fingerprints are as unique as anything is. Not just fingerprints have the possibility of providing definition in someones life, it is their human fingerprint, what they leave behind on the world that matters.
The fingerprints of divinity are everywhere when I take pictures of the skies above or creation around in the flowers’s colours, in the falling water, in the light of day it is everywhere I see and the more I see it the stronger the vision gets of what I can become and what I am string toward
I once had my finger print taken at a police station when I was like 8 years old. It was with the school because we had a trip to the local police station there to learn about things to do with the police and all that. It was a good day. I even went in the jail! How I laughed at the other kids who weren’t allowed to go in as well.
his fingerprints were all over the sofa. how could he be so stupid? his pulse raced as he thought of a way to get rid of them. was that the lock? it must be the stress getting to him. oh no, he thought as the lock clicked and the door opened…
Touch is a strong connector to my lover. I roll the tips of my fingers down his arm and across his torso. They run across the thick hairs of his chest, over the thick muscles.
I had to get my fingerprints taken in order to officially be hired at my new job. In the past, I have walked around with black fingertips for days over this. Now, tho, they put your fingers on little computerized glass, no one needs to know.
Identification? That’s boring. Footprint? Not exactly. Uniquely you. That’s probably closer. Proof that you were there. Proof that you existed. In a million years, will my fingerprint on a dusty tome be the only proof that I really was here?
Fingerprints by virtue of their existence point to the inessential nature of human experience. They are all fundamentally different and yet fundamentally the same. I think the contigency of identity may reside somewhere in these humble patterns that seem to mean so much and yet are imperceptable to the average person.
There it was. An horrifying scence unfolded in front of my eyes.There was a pool of crisimon blood and an intangible sense of mystery.I just had to find the whereabouts of the fingerprints left by the murderer. I whipped out my compact bottle of pale white talcum powder and suddenly,there was a wailing sound…
There it was. An horrifying scence unfolded in front of my eyes.There was a pool of crisimon blood and an intangible sense of mystery.I just had to find the whereabouts of the fingerprints left by the murderer. I whipped out my compact bottle of pale white talcum powder and suddenly,there was a wailing sound…
There it was. An horrifying scence unfolded in front of my eyes.There was a pool of crisimon blood and an intangible sense of mystery.I just had to find the whereabouts of the fingerprints left by the murderer. I whipped out my compact bottle of pale white talcum powder and suddenly,there was a wailing sound…
There,laid a smugged fingerprint.I dusted pale white talcum powder over it.I hit it on the spot.It was really the work of the world famous artist…I ran my hand across the painting. Electrifying shocks ruched through me. There was something mysterious about it, and it potrays a strong aura. It would always be an engima to me…
Fingerprints were everywhere. The scene was full of blood. Crimson red blood was scattered everywhere, on the floor, on the cushion and on the corpse that was lying limplessly. It was like hell.
The fingerprint on my right index finger is marred. I have a single line cutting straight through all of the beautiful whorls and somersaults of flesh that make up my unique identity. I was young and I was trying to make my brother a gift, it was to change his mood, not to change my life.
a fingerprint can be the most defining element of a person. no matter what you do or how hard you try to be someone that youre not, your fingerprint is always uniquely you. It allows you to leave your own specific mark anywhere that you go. It cannot be duplicated or reproduced.
when we were still kids, we love to dip our fingers into shallow tins of watercolours: red, blue, yellow, orange, green, purple. we would then use our coloured fingers to create pictures of flowers, trees, butterflies and birds on to the white virgin drawing papers given by our teachers.
You ever hear that song “The Myth of Fingerprints” by Paul Simon? What do you think it’s about? I kinda figured it’s about us thinking we’re all so different and not realizing how interconnected and similar we actually are, as humans, across cultures and countries. “There’s no doubt about it, it was the myth of fingerprints, I’ve seen them all and then they’re all the same.”
Everyone’s fingerprints are different, is what they always told me. But today I met someone with the exact same fingerprints as me. We both got really freaked out. What does it mean? we wondered. Are we soulmates? Clones? Long-lost conjoined twins? Needless to say, it was very disconcerting.
(ps this is fiction)
Just light the fire under your fingers and watch your fingerprints, your identity burn away.
I have ten finger prints and none of them are the same.Fingerprints are verry usefull to a lot of people around the world,especially investigators.
Investigators use fingerprints for crime scense’s.If someone ever got murdered the investigators would look for fingerprints and take other people’s fingerprints.
i have 10 fingerprints, they are completely different from anyone elses fingerprints. wouldn’t you know that when all those people try to be the same, they will never succeed, not because they can’t figure out how to act, but because their fingerprints will always be different.
<3
They were everywhere – an invasion of fingerprints, the story of a lifetime writ in dust in the ancient house. The end of a life, what a story they would tell. They are the marks of the many
They were everywhere – an invasion of fingerprints, the story of a lifetime writ in dust in the ancient house. The end of a life, what a story they would tell. They are the marks of the many
My mind blanks from the pressure of thinking so quickly. I feel an atmosphere akin to some espionnage movie.
the result of the police test. revealed . that jack was there. or at least. touch the underwear of mi little 18 year old girl that night.
you are at the tip of my fingers, the whisper on every word i speak. you are the mist that fogs my windowpane, one lone fingerprint on icy glass. where have you gone?
“Hand me the powder.”
“Here ya go.”
“I’ve never seen a print like this, are we sure it’s from a finger?”
“Well, Eddie, if you can call THAT a finger, sure.”
“This is the weirdest job, ever.”
Why is it the same word? She cried. So hard. COCK. Cock! Oh my fucking god! I want in your cock sized phone pocket where the dimmed lice keep their trophies of the Egyptian princess.
My fingerprints are as unique as anything is. Not just fingerprints have the possibility of providing definition in someones life, it is their human fingerprint, what they leave behind on the world that matters.
The fingerprints of divinity are everywhere when I take pictures of the skies above or creation around in the flowers’s colours, in the falling water, in the light of day it is everywhere I see and the more I see it the stronger the vision gets of what I can become and what I am string toward
I once had my finger print taken at a police station when I was like 8 years old. It was with the school because we had a trip to the local police station there to learn about things to do with the police and all that. It was a good day. I even went in the jail! How I laughed at the other kids who weren’t allowed to go in as well.
his fingerprints were all over the sofa. how could he be so stupid? his pulse raced as he thought of a way to get rid of them. was that the lock? it must be the stress getting to him. oh no, he thought as the lock clicked and the door opened…
Touch is a strong connector to my lover. I roll the tips of my fingers down his arm and across his torso. They run across the thick hairs of his chest, over the thick muscles.
the remainder of you,
the dust you shed or collected,
the condensation you created.
Like a brush of sand or an autumnal leaf
it fades
but remains.
His fingerprint is on my skin. It is a faint, pale red mark on the nape of my neck.
I can still feel his fingers. The phantom of his slender, dainty fingers that so often caressed the keys of the ivory piano.
His fingerprint is on my skin. It is a faint, pale red mark on the nape of my neck.
I can still feel his fingers. The phantom of his slender, dainty fingers that so often caressed the keys of the ivory piano.
Written on the walls and doors,
Written on my heart and soul,
The fingerprint of litte ones,
Who through this home have lived.
I had to get my fingerprints taken in order to officially be hired at my new job. In the past, I have walked around with black fingertips for days over this. Now, tho, they put your fingers on little computerized glass, no one needs to know.
Identification? That’s boring. Footprint? Not exactly. Uniquely you. That’s probably closer. Proof that you were there. Proof that you existed. In a million years, will my fingerprint on a dusty tome be the only proof that I really was here?
Fingerprints by virtue of their existence point to the inessential nature of human experience. They are all fundamentally different and yet fundamentally the same. I think the contigency of identity may reside somewhere in these humble patterns that seem to mean so much and yet are imperceptable to the average person.
fingerprints covered the clear glass panel. after all the effort gone into cleaning the glass window, everything was gone with just a touch.
take this finger print put it to your heart and it will stay with you as i have in your mind lost but traceable if you try.
take this finger print put it to your heart and it will stay with you as i have in your mind lost but traceable if you try.
Eine Spur,
die ich finde,
Klein und unbedeutend
oder ist sie doch mehr?
ich wünsche es mir sehr.
Vielleicht war es ein Verehrer
ein liebender Liebender
oder ein Gast der vollen Stunde
die, sie in meinem Gunste?
This would be my fingerprint for the rest of my life. Like a shadow of myself it will grow an change with me. Like a good old friend.
There it was. An horrifying scence unfolded in front of my eyes.There was a pool of crisimon blood and an intangible sense of mystery.I just had to find the whereabouts of the fingerprints left by the murderer. I whipped out my compact bottle of pale white talcum powder and suddenly,there was a wailing sound…
There it was. An horrifying scence unfolded in front of my eyes.There was a pool of crisimon blood and an intangible sense of mystery.I just had to find the whereabouts of the fingerprints left by the murderer. I whipped out my compact bottle of pale white talcum powder and suddenly,there was a wailing sound…
There it was. An horrifying scence unfolded in front of my eyes.There was a pool of crisimon blood and an intangible sense of mystery.I just had to find the whereabouts of the fingerprints left by the murderer. I whipped out my compact bottle of pale white talcum powder and suddenly,there was a wailing sound…
There,laid a smugged fingerprint.I dusted pale white talcum powder over it.I hit it on the spot.It was really the work of the world famous artist…I ran my hand across the painting. Electrifying shocks ruched through me. There was something mysterious about it, and it potrays a strong aura. It would always be an engima to me…
Fingerprints were everywhere. The scene was full of blood. Crimson red blood was scattered everywhere, on the floor, on the cushion and on the corpse that was lying limplessly. It was like hell.
The fingerprint on my right index finger is marred. I have a single line cutting straight through all of the beautiful whorls and somersaults of flesh that make up my unique identity. I was young and I was trying to make my brother a gift, it was to change his mood, not to change my life.
Fingrafar. Fingrafar á gluggakistu. Einu persónulegu skilaboðin sem þjófurinn hafði skilið eftir ef frátekið er illa farin íbúðin. Fingrafarið.
everyone have unique fingerprints, its perhaps the best signature to identify someone. Moreover the tongue-prints are also unique for each person.
The police found the fingerprint on the suspected gun.
a fingerprint can be the most defining element of a person. no matter what you do or how hard you try to be someone that youre not, your fingerprint is always uniquely you. It allows you to leave your own specific mark anywhere that you go. It cannot be duplicated or reproduced.