The Typist

The mechanical keyboard's precise and rhythmic clicks create something akin to music. It's a simple symphony of words being summoned forth from the depths of a mind soaked in disconnected thoughts and drowning in alcohol. Words dance upon the page as the writer's vision becomes increasingly blurred. Sentences begin to run into each other and the letters crash into words unintelligible. Still the rhythm continues. Now the writer isn't sure if it's coming entirely from the keyboard or if some of the music is now coming from his addled brain. Fingers still dancing across the keys with a long practiced muscle memory, the author begins to hum along to the beat of an asynchronous drum. Synapses fire more randomly as they suffocate in the poisonous ethanol. His eyes become glazed and realizing they're not needed anymore, they slowly slide closed. The beating of his heart begins to match the clacking of the keys.

Thump click clack, thump click clack, thump click clack.

The swaying form of the author appears to nearly lose balance a few times but the humming and typing don't miss a beat. The same cannot be said for the enlarged, abused heart of the man.

Thump click clack, click cla-thump, click-- click thump, click clack. click. Thump. Clack.