It's all a feeling, in the gut, an intuition, so to speak.
You just know, he retorts, candidly to my questioning and prodding, curious as to how it is that he does what he does, and how he does it so well.
If it were possible we would see the healing powers ebb and flow throw those healing hands and into the torso of the afflicted.
The impaired and stricken come in droves, they seek a remedy, relief, salvation for their wretched bodies, their decaying physical shell.
It's all in the touch, the laying on of hands, to impart and release the power, the hidden, ethereal, eternal and omnipotent power, the life source of all, which he freely gives and spreads to the downtrodden and ailing.
As he glides his spirit-fingers above the eagerly awaiting suffering soul, the essence and mysticism of the east, the power of the spirits, flow onward and outward from him to them, channeling the healing power into the recipient, whose only hope, whose only chance at survival, at redemption, at life is, the Healer.
The feeling's not right, he mutters.
That's better he know senses, to their relief, what exactly has changed, is the difference, is hard to tell, but rest assured, the time is NOW right for MAGIC to happen, for the yoke to be lifted and the burden lightened.
All can take so much, before breaking point is reached, it is up to certain individuals to alleviate the excess, to reduce the weight, to assist in the climb, to strengthen the ranks of the battle-weary soldier as they are thrust, unwittingly into the never-ending struggle that rages on and on.
