Residue

One minute.
Of simplicity.
Typing.
Kids typing.
Type writer.
What is that?
That thing that captures letters, words as we tap them, hit them, ink into paper, touching, feeling the keys, hearing the tick, click, jam, one letter is off, imperfect, human, can't be corrected, easily, there is no undo. No delete. Ideas spill out, and the words are there, physically there. Jam. Pull the wire arms back, and hit, tap, click, connection with physical, the touch, language, not digital, made up, on a screen, a shadow of itself, pretending it is there. As we are, pretending, there is us underneath. We are all typewriters, real, physical, human, imprfect. What are we typing in this world? What is our story? What are is our residual? The thing that's left behind when we are no longer here.  In memory. Our residue. Ink on a page. Stories of who we were. That is all that we have.