I hate that idea of something forced against its will and perhaps against its nature and believe that all true crimes have some element of this seed which is so repellent to my mind. But now I am forcing myself to write which may be a crime but fuck it this shit isn't going to write itself and sometimes you've got to take a few slaps, even if you're the one giving and receiving them.

As I reach out to unsuccessfully remove a fly (which glories in the deep and unrequited love which it holds for my monitor), my hands emulate the hovering fly, almost imperceptibly stroking this monitor which holds so many memories while the humming faceless box below seems to hold nothing. I slide my hand along the monitor’s jaw, over each cryptic button, and sink back to my sunken keyboard, remembering typewriters which always intrigued me but were never as transparent as the array of molded plastic assembled before me.