I ponder the audacity of venturing into a foggy void that, while unknown initially, is expectedly treacherous and, perhaps, unforgiven. Yet, I choose to proceed.

The topography that lies before me then suddenly seems familiar. Does it seem absurd that the slight but noticeable mechanical tap and rumble of an instrument serving as my compass that most consider obsolete is one I welcome as nostalgically divine? After all, its obsolescence necessitates my envisioning each step forward, anticipating that the tap accompanying each step will permanently mark a declaration that compels my acceptance of an affirmed love affair with my typewriter.

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