Writing with the smallest possible font to produce the tiniest letters remains the best effort to prevent onlookers from a foray into the valuable words that will fit themselves on the screen in lieu of all of that white space; this which is the equivalent of transcribing melodies from a moving trolley car: Stan Getz is not playing des expressions touriste-amicales on green dolphin street.
Descending along Green Dolphin Street at a steady rate of thirteen miles per hour with slight brake application, un messager de velo with warm rubber tires anticipates the next leg of his red-light race in favor of waiting for the man’s next note, and much less for the expression on his face when he releases it. However, having owned a saxophone himself at a beardless age, he sends a courteous nod in the direction of the man embracing the saxophone.
A physicist on the trolley sees the barreling bicycle tires and steadily turns his head like he was speed-reading, while pondering a graphical analysis of the 10-degree slope's acquiescence with the time he would need to stop for a red light, and furthermore, at what speed the messenger would feel nearly weightless on that 15-degree tilt.
Next to the double-collared professor, a collegiate bicycle racer inspects the single-geared bike for recognizable components and considers how the single-speed does not offer a method to optimize low-gear training. It wouldn’t work for him. His sister half his size holds his hand gleefully, peering out at the world through the legs of people. She doesn't know it, but is glad that trolley cars were built cheaply with insufficient materials to cover the railing with full skirting; otherwise she wouldn’t be able to experience these people, and her free admission would seem to cost an impaired experience.
All of these students studying so diligently for mid-terms and finals must be too self-absorbed to worry about this word document, but it is better to be safe than sorry. Simultaneously, distractions avail themselves at no cost; there are so many tight and stretching outfits to turn to and unnoticeably examine. Across the Computer Sea are innumerable screens like white caps on a windy day, with florescent apples bobbing in between.
Let me see how productive everyone else is in hope that his or her own focus will inspire my own: a cat in horizontal stripes of blue and baby blue cotton pounces paws onto piano keys. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
I might shoot myself.
I don’t know if it will be good, but writing is riskier business in comparison to killing oneself.
What if I kill this keyboard? Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
The sounds of power are too often positively related to volume; though on the flip side, an inverse relation does not avail the antagonist into a thermal-vision scope. Volume is not intensity, just as the clicks of empty writing are indecipherable from the keystrokes of careful writing.
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