clackity clacka clack clacka
Huuummmmmmm. The typewriter’s electric voice reverberated through the cold whitewashed room.
Clackity clacka clacka clackity clack clack
The two fingers kept an even pace, one leaving just as the other marked the page. They only paused momentarily and never aimed to go any faster, lest they tangle themselves against one another.
Clacka clacka clack clacka clack clack clacka
The white ink wrote poorly over the black. Leaving a shade of each letter peeking out of the whiteness. The black ghost of each mistake.
Clack. Clack. Clackity clacka clacka. Clack.
Crink crunk crunk! The page is torn from its sheath. It has served its brief life and brief purpose and makes way for a younger, brighter page.