The Writings on the Wall

I've always been a writer. On what though, through the years has changed. Has evolved cybernetically. Once was a time the key ENTER was RETURN. And before that you didn't hit keys, keys struck wet black ribbons on platen roll like stonecutters stamping eulogies on markers monumental and marble.

RETURN was a swoosh, a beautiful silver lever you swiped aside with every line that came out but had to end for no more rubber log was there, and return you did with total flare and rhythm to the Muse played on, return once again in ritual the beginning of the rolling log on spit spinning, weaving, in this gorgeous tapered MACHINE, you slapped that lever back with a Vegas slot machine surety that all sevens would line up soon.

On a roll so to speak.

USB Typewriter kits! Click the pic.
Digital I/O will never replace such wizardly apparatus, but my fuzzy floppy cone hat won't change no matter the Harry Potter twink bullied in Magic School they try and sell. A cap of thinking that still has upon it a big star of gold no matter what they give me in the lab to bubble up potions based on their yellowing posters of periodically tabled words.

The typewriter is well loved. Start here.

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