Concrete stabs of keys, monuments, driving up against his raw fingers, honeyed by sweat and tempo. No dust, never longer than a peck and breath could wash it clear. This was the crowning of his words. The birth cycle. The ugly genesis of a coal pressing not into diamonds but into electrons blazing dead and hard and sharp onto his unwilling monitor.
He sank his lips into a glass of yellow whisky. Suckled. Sighed.
“It’s perfect,” he muttered. Then he deleted it all.