he placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me through the door. i gazed about the vast white room, it seemed to go on forever. i rubbed my eyes unable to make out any shapes. suddenly, as if out of a thick fog, faces began to appear before me. one of which, a pale woman with sunken grey eyes. she stepped towards me. she walked like a ghost. more of a gliding motion. she slowly reached forward, and placed a cold slender hand on my cheek. before i could pull away in protest, her mouth opened, wide. she took a deep breath as if to speak, but the sound that escaped her throat could not have been further from human. when she spoke it brought to mind miles and miles of cement, shivering on dark street corners. crushed steel emiting sparks in every direction. i turned to him in question, gaping like an idiot. "relax," he spoke softly "they speak the language of machines."




typewriters have a great deal of artistic value. they inspire me.