I sit, fingers arched over keyboard. He hovers at my left shoulder like a banshee.

It is the specter of Wendell Berry.

Oh, the fiendish keyboard! The thief that has stolen the tactile pleasures of page and pencil—the raper of paper. It drowns the flow of words with its infernal clacking.

Yet, I sit.

I think.

I clack.

Leave me, Wendell!. I am past hope.