In astra pontus tollitur, caelum perit*

the sonorous sill, you child of aesthete, my concordant hands have failure lined to the wrists

...which makes it difficult to pick things up.

like Des Esseintes, who in the grips of a heavy object can retain all postur(ing), but when troubled with the slightest of things, such as a wineglass, trembles and betrays the illness within.

Have you visited this yet?
Spokenweb

*The sea rises to the stars, the sky vanishes.