Clack Clack

Sometimes I wonder if I had a typewriter if I would take the things I write more seriously. If the process would somehow be more significant and if I would say less frivolous things. I remember sitting in my great grandmother’s office, memorizing the keys of her typewriter, “Qwerty.” She wrote a lot. So I’ll imagine this is some striking hulking typewriter with presence, and maybe this will be worthwhile.

“People are unknowable.”

Why do you think so? I mean, you can know things about me. You can know that I hate olives; that my favorite color is navy; that I’m afraid of zombies, spiders, and heights; that I binge watch British TV dramas when I’m alone.

“You can never really know what goes on inside someone else’s heart.”

Why do you think that is?

I like someone before they’ve branded themselves. That’s when you get all of them. Once they find their brand…you’ll never get in, not really. You’ll never find the grooves in the record; you’ll never find out what makes them click; you’ll never catch them not posing, unguarded, safe.

Sometimes I do get invited in…sometimes they open the gate and for a brief moment I’m given all the passwords and the treasures and the fancy desserts. But it’s too much. I get flooded out.

“I don’t want that, I want you instead.”

I’m thinking of all of you. I’m talking about all of you. People see what they want.

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