Belief #11

What I believe:

Is if my computer had a button on the side, which, when I pushed it, turned this machine slowly into a typewriter, my screen into a paper, my keys into elevated ones, my virtual ink into the wet of old, the plastic into the solid weight of metal, the air into a thick and fresh taste, the building that houses my apartment into gone, even the metropolis where my building now exists into a setting like the small camp it was one of one-hundred and fifty years ago where around me I could see the difference of this western state, the languages, the dialects,  the people, the lifestyles where a story is something a settler of 1861 disregards for the figures of acreage against costs or ownership against surveyed plots, a government surveyor winces against to instead take the bottle of rye, a miner passes on in his twelve year search, a Chinese immigrant isn’t allowed to understand, a Mexican vaquero winks away,  and a cowboy whistles at before saying, “I did’t do school all the way through,” and where a typewriter itself is a rare thing, then I might not feel this way.

But as is–I sit in my small apartment and listen to my neighbors move furniture from one wall to another to another to another, and I think about walking to the fast-food restaurant as an excuse to get outdoors–I believe this is the only thing I want to be doing.


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