Words flow from my hands as I tippy tap on this tiny keyboard. No thoughts occur more than a second before I type it down. I typed less then, but that would be a lie. Also maybe slightly more than a second. But thoughts just spur, just spout out of my head onto this screen of black and green. This old machine like a typewriter. A modern typewriter where not every time you type something wrong you need to tear out the page and start again. Remember that? I didn’t have to do it for long. I learned to type on a type machine. It is most unforgiving. But soon that made way for these magical devices that now control our lives. It is no longer a commodity, but rather a necessity. Not just to fit in but to be. As if without an internet profile somewhere or other you don’t exist in what we call the Western world. You are lamented. Poor thing, no internet, maybe not even a computer. But to be honest, I was quite happy with my typewriter too. But maybe the forests weren’t as happy with me tearing page after page out of the damn thing because I made yet another mistake.