As I sit here waiting to return something in IKEA, I look at my hand. 

   ‘My’ hand. The very language steers me to believe that there is an owner of the hand, and that owner is me. If it isn’t mine, whose can it be!?

But the me that owns the hand cannot be found. The hand that I appear to own also cannot be found. All there is is the thought ‘hand’ and ‘mine’ and ‘me’. Other than these thoughts there is nothing to find.