Daily story, February 6, 2025

I type on a long feed of paper, which enters my home through a slot in the wall, spools around the platen of my typewriter, and disappears into the ceiling. Sometimes the fresh paper arrives with words or marks already on it, and I advance past them or type over them or work them into my writing according to my whim. After the paper slides away above me, I forget about it. It goes off to wherever it is going, and I go on typing. The ribbon dried up months ago. On a sunny day, I can make out the impression of my words. Now it is my job to wear the letters off the typebars.