The Danish Girl

The cotton's feel was of a million light volts on the nerves of her fingertips. She could feel each movement as a gentle, ticklish caress that felt slow in its sensation and smooth texture. It's how she felt about each painting she saw. 

Each painting she could touch and feel the world inside it. The dimension of the painting grew into that of her world, of her earth, and the world seized to be four corners and four walls. The world became the breeze on her skin, the hug and embrace of the wind. The green trees hummed and her hand touched the tree's base. It smelled of oak and nature, and its pattern was rough in complexity of embracing layers yet managed to blend intricately into each other. It's wrinkly appearance did not prevent it from feeling like a baby's hands, new and untainted with time.