Each tap on this keyboard spills a million atoms or so. I've got billions upon billions of them, but eventually new ones will fly back, join my body to see how it works out for them. But, ultimately they'll leave - through the hammering the keyboard, through frying an egg, popping the toast. Some'll jump ship slotting my season ticket into the metro turnstile. Others'll fly off during sex and the heart palpitations drumming more away into the bedroom air. More sprinkle away when I shuffling my arse in an office chair. Wiping my arse millions more flee, as wobbling a toothbrush in my mouth does, as does going from a dressing gown to underpants, to socks, to trousers, ad infinitum. However, the keyboard somehow seems to suck the most, pulling me into it. Even though I'm visiting the grave of the past when I'm here - there is something physically pathetic about raking out these stories, paragraphs, words, letters, commas, pixels, bytes - all of them seem to drain my molecules more than anything.
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Off they fly - in a thousand years some of them will be part of your descendents. Someone, from part of your current genes, will be in a bed, or down an alleyway, making a baby - and somewhere nestled inside them, jiggling, possibly waiting to jettison itself will be a part of this story - not any of its sense or nonsense, but a sub-microscopic part of what it took to write it. My stories won't live that long, but an atom or two from me will be in almost everything. People'll pick flowers still to ask for love - in the microscopic grains of the petals, deep and deeper and piece of RuKsaK will be sitting.
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You'll be there with me. My atom and your atom, side by side, or a gazillion atoms apart in the same monkey, the same cheese sandwich, the same drop of plummeting rain. We might share a place in the hand or heart of the next Shakespeare. Maybe we'll saddle ourselves to a couple of old bricks for a while, have a swim near a whale's back, swim in a puddle or the Seine.
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I'd like to say I'll see you there - I really would. We could even be sitting in the same eyeball, and eyeball reading a book. We'll made a piece so small it’ll make the next sentence you read more colossal than the universe itself.
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I will live on forgotten forever. And, so will you.
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The above was leaked and slobbered out whilst on route to another story which I had had in mind. This inspiration for this little detour was brought to you by one of my other links:
