Discard hair from keyboard and keep typing. Listen for white noise and keep typing. Watch the eruption of clusters of buds where there will be leaves on trees, note the startled green, anticipate the hum of nature, feel the singe of the stretching chlorophyll and keep typing. Keep typing. Look at the rain dappled barbecue, not red, but on wheels, and keep typing. Wonder when the moss will take over everything, every conceivable surface, and keep typing even as you begin to feel the fur underneath your fingertips, even as your forearms slide on the edge of the mossy table, even as you are drunk on the scent of peat, keep typing. Keep typing as you ignore the suburban snore, the blast of the firetruck going somewhere in the rain, the jittery sound of electricity in old wires, keep typing. Keep typing as you age, as you return to dust, as you thin and spread, as you wilt, as you recede, as you burst into being. Keep typing as the children come home with wet baseball caps and muddy shoes, trailing grass clippings, voices high and loud, as you make them a sandwich with one hand, spreading mustard, keep typing. Keep typing as your thumbs slide with mustard. Keep typing. Keep typing as you remember some far-off ex-lover who broke your heart and is now broken hearted at the bottom of a tepid bath. Keep typing. Keep typing as the robin collides with your windowpane again–the same way it did when you were typing. You kept typing. You kept typing when it recovered from the collision, when it steadied itself on a branch, when it fluttered into the forest, when it returned and pulled an elastic worm from between the patio tiles. You kept typing despite the omen of death. Keep typing even as the afternoon crowds around you with school bells and traffic. Keep typing. As the supermarket leans in and nags you, keep typing. As the emails ping and gather, keep typing. As the hauntedness of your own face calls from the mirror, keep typing. Keep typing as all the other illusions slip around you and you are underwater where the sound of your typing is lost to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you will be typing. You’ll really be typing then. When there is no difference between the inner workings of your body and the words that tap from the very ends of your fingers.