Looking down at the keys and squinting through a cracked mirror of blur, raising hands which are balloons of lead, to push into life words that wait in the queue of the addled Tilt-A-Whirl in my smeary mind.
I find that the “T” key and the Space Bar will have nothing of it.
They and their assembled brothers sail through the kinescope of the darkroom I call home; and are dispersed as the shells of an egg long gone rotten….
They lay in the corner, like my emotions; smelling of cheap scotch and burnt out incense.
The words will have to wait. They were dead already anyway.
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