Type

 
Crisp crackles beneath delirious digits surging through a carpal tunnel.

The dance — monolithic screvenery,

festering in the sterile breath of the board’s escapade from the natural dimension

to not have been transmuted from any life or death in its slick plain.

To assert you cannot prevent vanilla air from ruminating in loose-leaf page,

nor that writing, writing is cast amidst the void.