Before me is this screen,
bright and unreal.
The plastic keys beneath my fingertips
Are not quite right for this sort of work.
I'd rather be scribbling on a scrap of paper,
a three-year-old mechanical pencil pressed to the notebook
and longing to take on a life of its own.
It's so much more personal --
The not-quite-right-angle of my L,
the imperfect circle of my o,
the sharp point of my v,
and the feminine loop of my e.
What passion is there in Times New Roman text?
So cold, precise and stark black
against this terrible and unforgiving white.
The clicking of keystrokes
breaks the calm silence of the room and drives me mad,
like the steadily growing volume
of a heartbeat beneath the floorboards.
Artificial light pours out,
giving my hands and face
A surreal blue tint that screams,
"Who are you to question the marvel
That is the computer?!"