The Typist

A former life. I am there, a sort of poet in 1920. My typewriter speaks a thousand words of English, if you peck at it with a thousand fingers. I need help. I have hired a woman, a lady from a typing pool one with coffee serving skills. Today the typewriter and the lady are in place. I pace the room seeking inspiration, mumble and grumble. “Sir do you want me to type that mumbled incantation?" “Just type anything," I say exasperated. but be sure to make it plausible.” I mean really!