Tag Archives: The Typist

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.