I used to belong in an Underwood. The type writer was cut from the very best trees deep in a jungle off the coast of South America. The wood was clean cut and smoothed over with black shiny paint, but I could still smell the magic glowing in between the keys. Deep inside the type writer I lived with my magic, curled up on top of the ribbon. The ink was so soft and pleasant that I fell asleep for days on end.
The writer would pound on his keys, trying to wake me up, but the magic was slowly disappearing. For days on end I would sleep on the ribbon, dozing until late afternoon. “Where Are You?” He banged the type writer against the desk in frustration.
Only when he bought a new type writer did I find that life wasn’t so easy. The ribbon wasn’t nearly as soft and my back ached with the strain. The smoothness of the type writer was barely wood at all. Instead it felt synthetic and plastic. The writer banged the keys much harder and my brain shook against its walls.
It was in this unsteady state of mind that I began to turn alive. With little rest and lack of comfort, I started to move in ways I never thought possible. Words spilled out of me and within hours I was whispering to the writer, making my ideas his. Quietly navigating him from below the ribbon, I knew we would never sleep again.
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