THE SPIRIT OF THE TYPEWRITER
In the midnight laundromat The Spirit of the Typewriter folded towels vehemently in an effort to banish aching memories of The Spirit of the Adding Machine. No use, no use, he thought, and abandoning all dignity and stoic acceptance, The Spirit of the Typewriter depressed his space bar. Instantaneously whisked to an establishment located a few kilometers above the dark side of the moon, The Spirit of the Typewriter slumped into a velvet booth.
“What’ll it be, pally?” asked the slender barkeep, voice raised to soar above the syncopated sound of the house band tearing through a jazzed up version of ‘Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life’.
“Rubbing alcohol, and leave the barrel,” replied The Spirit of the Typewriter.
And so, The Spirit of the Typewriter drowned his sorrows in a bar hovering above the far side of the moon. Meanwhile, The Spirit of the Adding Machine was similarly occupied somewhere in the Crab Nebula. Each Spirit remained ignorant of lost love’s location. Ignorance, my friends, is not always bliss.
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