The backspace key has a distinctly shameful sound, whether you’ve noticed or not. Talia has. Her middle finger salutes her idiocy again as Talia taps another useless paragraph into the void.
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack. Talia remembers the train, and the passive progress of being carried.
Eyelids in slow motion, Talia leans back and lets muddled memories, impressions, and associations tunnel up and out her fingertips. Talia types.
The library closing announcement wakes her. She is ashamed. Ashamed she slept. Ashamed she didn't write anything. She moves to turn off the machine and freezes. On the screen: the best work she's ever done.
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