Joshua Klockars

The typewriter, though obsolete, is aesthetically pleasing. Modern demands shun the typewriter; spurn its archaic ways. Modernists spit on the typewriter's exposed keys. These people generally lack souls and wear suits, but as history has proven passing judgment leads to war, so we must be careful. For me, it’s the gentle tic, tick, purr of the typewriter, more soothing than a massage from a Thai woman adept with her hands. And too, my industrial passion burns with fury undaunted, so I’ve to change my Facebook status. Live it, is to love. After all, it is our construction. It’s what we wanted. It’s making us better. Still, there’s something about that typewriter, and its cool raspy voice, ticking time on a poorly lit whiskey-bar stage, she smells like chardonnay and cigarettes, and that voice, sultry like Badu and Joplin, smooth as shit with so much pain, and that heel all the time, ticking away. And she’s here, and she’s real, and it’s all relativity. In the typewriter's voice, in its second, is a life, and we are just shining all the time.