Words at the typewriter

If I ever got a typewriter, it would be sky-blue. The keys would be white or, even better, yellow. On the left side would be an inscription in long, loopy cursive writing that would say:

This machine surrounds hatred, and forces itself to surrender.

I would put it in a plain room with only a chair and a small desk inside. No posters, no bookshelf and no open window. It would be a sanctuary dedicated to my craft, free of distractions except an unending supply of milk tea and Oreo cookies.

Bludgeoning the keys like they owe me 5 rand, I would dedicate myself for at least 5000 words a day, more if I could get away from the wife and kids long enough.

If I had a typewriter, I would already be successful. Not because it would give me success but because I would have enough time to bang away at the keys for 8 hours or more.

And when the day finally came that I could no longer write anything, either through sever arthritis or old age, probably both, I would sit back and wait for the end. Just me and my sky-blue typewriter.

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