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This desolate machine, with shaky base of abused drafting table...

Has been waiting for me.

Neither it be a loyal Labrador content to the tip of tapering tail, nor a pitied lover of a friend who forgot the other. This plastic body is a medium for the expression of fontal idea. Picturesque leters, shape of inspiration weave across the page. This is the bibliophiles


It makes thoughts last

Despite the inherent mystique of this machine, I have set fingers to keys seldom lately. The black squares with white letters have a sleek film of dust surrounding the rounded rhombus bases. The J and F are worn away, but the ribbon inside makes sure they show up on page. I did not abandon it. I succumbed to the pinch of unemployment. Dull time has worn me away. Paid work is my mistress.

This typewriter still waits, hoping I don't die before I get it right. The chorus it sings when I provide it with a delightful surprise is like a serenade to fall asleep to. I laugh and curse at its glitches.

Fault breeds sentiment.

The words writers pour through these machines begin as pulp, of rubbish. Then like running clothes through a ringer we:

  • Delete
  • Cut
  • Paste
  • white out
  • Run a line through it
Until we get juice, or a neat pile. Letter forming contraptions provide prescription pad scribbles a place to be read.

The absolute cornerstone of all communication.

The bicycle of literary travel

My acclaim is needed as this machine has waited too long, needs a stretch, and deserves props.

The uniform standard letters it creates are not mundane or flat, their plain forces the imagination to solve a logistical puzzle of infinite dimentions. If the machines could write themselves, they would produce only the blank page.

Think of the blank page as inspiration.

locked and loaded, the blank page reminded me. I can not recall what I meant to write, or when. I remembered that I would.

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