Perhaps we are among the last. To listen to the click of an analog clock and stare at the possibility within a blank page. Pen hovering and heavy with unformed phrases. We are searching for the story. The heart, the beat, the string of what runs along our bones. Amassing graphemes and morphemes in the crook above the thumb. They’ll tumble down the pen and fall into the curves and scrawls of repeating ink. We will shape the secrets into discernible code where we will disappear amid the snap of synapses behind our eyes.