Is what I hate about using this computer the lack of outcome? I am an anxious man.
Where do these words go after they have been driven down by these little electrical spikes, without a hammer or keyclick, into the pulsing ceramic brain within this square eyed Japanese cyclops of a machine?
Magnets snare them, tape heads swallow them. Not the Sirens but the Lotus Eaters (there’s only been one book ever written and it was a Greek wrote it—though some say he was Armenian, Asia Minor, Greek-Jew or Jew-Greek or something—and then an Irishman rewrote it and everybody else kept trying).