There’s a sticky silence in the incense smoke of the cluttered bedroom. Slight tapping of a keyboard, little Morse Code transmissions from fingers to screen. The only noticeable notion of existence. The tapping of the typing falls and rises in lurches and swells, too erratic to be an ebb and flow, too steady to be tremors. It’s still dark. And from our little places, we – being nothing but flies on the wall – are able to sense that our mysterious night-time writer is very, very, very lonely.
Re-position. Better view. Reassess.
About thirteen pages. Not too bad, for a carcass. Appears that he’s using Times New Roman: a classic. Single spaced, so it’s a little hard to see from afar. But at this point, perhaps as if he knows he’s being watched, he starts to type faster, more ferociously. You know, that “violent, grunting, teeth girding, hot dog! motherfucker – HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD TIME AT CHURCH, KIDS , because that sweet, seductive Devil is comin’ to your bedroom” kind of writing that can only really be accomplished when there’s nothing in the world one can say.
Intrigue. Get closer. Inspect.
Well, thirteen pages – coming up on fourteen now – it may be, but alas! ’tis all for not. Our deranged and desperate typist is nothing more than, indeed, a typist. As if a hired hand to individually write apology letters and recall notices, he has spent thirteen – but coming up on fourteen – pages typing an estimated fourteen thousand words (what? we’re flies in this situation – how good can we be at counting?) all in repetition. Just repetition. Repetition upon repetition upon repetition. He’s taken words and made patterns of patterns. Patterns in the patterns of his patterns that pattern his patterns. And he has repeated the patterns of his repetitions, and patterned his repeats into his muscle memory. Stuck in a repetition compulsion, repetition, repetition, in a pattern of patterns, over and over, again and again he writes and rewrites: “I’m sorry”.
Disappointment. Originality. The flies die, and the story ends.