The Typist

Another day waking up to the echoes of you. Your name the fateful conjurer. Oh, the things that follow in its wake, they are like voices. Like a choir. And all of their songs are about you.

I watch myself doing it but still it happens. I see the pattern, the way the days unfold into desperation, yet here I am. Not yet dressed, writing about you.

Where does it come from? I do not know. I only know that it’s here. That it speaks to me and I type out what it says.

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