I often ponder the art of palm-reading--interpreting the body's map of life. Staring at the creases of my own, I see nothing familiar. Perhaps the map of my life can be found in my palm, should I have the courage to ignore the deep creases--the direct routes. The courage to ignore the thick, red interstates that leap to the eyes, promising convenience and ease. I will choose instead the path implied by the backroads, potholes, and streams--the barely perceptible lines, pores, and translucent veins that make my palm truly unique, truly inspiring. A map to be followed.