I found I have lost the tactile need for penmanship as it has been replaced with the clickity-clack of the keyboard. No more broad sweeps or stylish curvatures. Just the tap, tap, tap, of the keyboard. A writing as easily placed and understood as my neighbors, seemingly indifferent, other than context, if you get my meaning. My fingers meet at the index, feeling the familiar raised etching, from there they know their place. Each finding their sought after key with the alacrity of habit. Each key an endorphin rush as each finger celebrates its crawling fluid movement hurriedly and excitedly as they build to express my opinion, advice, idea, thanks, or simply rousing in good conversation. The night is no obstacle to the keyboard. Were I to look at the keys and my fingers doing their work, surely they would stop and stutter as if a-fixed with fright. Their greatest critic looking on at a stumbling performance. Don't think about it twice, just do, let the rambling, clickity-clack carry on through the show as a song ringing in beat to each successful stroke. Well, with that being said; I would imagine my hypocrisy has reached full-fold as I now find myself giving homage to the backspace. No keyboard of mine would be nearly complete without it. The eraser of misgivings, the linear savior of my thoughts and ideas. It completes my waning skill, both of thought and dexterity.