I found the door slightly ajar, the common wake of a visitor. The front door does not close all the way, a wood warped bottom in need of planing. Closing from inside with firm familiar motion. Toes on the floor heel pressing, creaking firmly into place. Making my way to the back of the house out of curiousity. As suspected, the shelf looks content as though the aquarium had never been there. Nice to find a wanting home instead of throwing them away, a patience game. Noticing to the right of the mildly vacant spot a large lump. A lump with a rod sticking out through the cover. The very protrusion I hit my head against routinely, too deeply absorbed from painting to be cautious of my surroundings. The guiding rail of a typewriter now placed on the kitchen table with a greedily half eaten sheet of paper inside it. I cautiously depressed i, having to continue much farther through an unexpectedly long travel, until the arm bearing vowel finaly completes the arc. Now leaning the dark ribbon into clean paper, I wondered what I would see in the absence of the hammer. Releasing the key, it began a unusualy slow descent back to the waiting rows of letters. Leaving behind, nothing. With great force, a row bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb appeared lightly.
A combination of letters intended for a word ended jammed in a tangled broken clump near the paper. Pulled apart, they insolently drifted down to ready position. A definite need for oil, with patience and effort, sentences, paragraphs of wavering darkness begin to appear heavily embossed. The ribbon rotates on the spool in tandem. Content with the text, I realize the tips of my fingers ache horribly in the very nice way. The same glow garnered after finishing a project beyond the point of exhaustion, forced forwards with a blinding inertia.