Every word you type introduces an error, a small discrepancy between your intention and its realisation. The inaccuracies accrue; they gather round the dimly lit ends of sentences, knowing that you’re headed their way. As you approach, they start to jeer. You used to go back and find a different way, but not any more. Now, you walk straight through them, stealing a can of Stella and a cigarette as you go. You’ve leaned that the ideal quantization of thought is an unrealistic aim, and that mistakes are a good thing. You still get a kicking occasionally though.
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