I have a real old type writer in my living room. Its round keys, who not always go back to their place after you tap them, weight a tone. The letters on the keys sits in rows and each letter rule from its spot sitting on an Iron chair, patronizing over the tenants of this small kingdom. Every key rules when it’s her turn, making her own tune. Not like today when my wireless keyboard has its efficient management team, and Microsoft is the real ruler over this virtual kingdom. Once upon a time, rulers lived closer to their people. So I was sitting there with an older friend who came for a visit and we thought of how we used to use those antiques, and what happened to our string of thoughts every time one key didn’t agree with what another ruled, or when the drunk author missed an A with an I or a C with a K. and I said that even tough I was born sentimental, I prefer for sure my computer and modern keyboard that do not cut my strings of thoughts and don’t create a labyrinth over my paper if I just finished this excellent Cabarnet. And he answered that he rather have his memoir written by a machine like this one , cause she will understand its wrinkles, cause she will obtain his old age.I love people who treat objects like human beings. So I let my friend to use me for a slight hour as his own type writer, telling his story of childhood, letting him type on my young keyboard, memories of nature and friendship.
