There's a certain intricacy in the act of writing that you, the reader, simply cannon grasp. I am here at my desk, looking at a sheet of white real estate, undeveloped, waiting to be born between the rolls of rubber. There are only a few lines now and I cannon in good conscience speculate on what might be wrought by the slamming, literate anvil in the ones that follow, if they do at all.
Yes I am here, my mind as naked as yours, existing in blissful ignorance of what may be in the coming lines, or pages, or volumes. Of course this is my now and your now may, no, will be very different than mine. In time, your now will become my now and the combined our now will leave the ignorance of the not-yet stamped ink (if indeed it is still ink in our now) solely upon you. Unless your now is currently my now and you are reading over my shoulder. Are you there?
If I am indeed as alone as I believe, then my task is to be here, tap-tapping out a line that I can throw to you in hope you will hoist my anticipation to yourself. I am a time traveler and this typewriter is my time machine.
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