.

Keyboards are abominable creations. The letters are too brazen. Stare by stare, we pass the time frowning at one another, each trying to provoke a reaction. The keys dare me to hit them, and I do. Dupable to the end.

Prints-first, my fingers tap, tap, tap away, not bothering to stop and take stock. Idiots. Every mindless digit. A carnage of A's E's and I's splay across the page. Consonants are scattered about; ink splattered dead on a red, red stage. Words. Who ever let me get a hold of them? Words are for wordsmiths; delicate, and to be used with care. When did I ever heed such a warning?

Do me a favour? Break my fingers?