I gaze at the 'peckers of the keys, with desultory gaze, knowing...they are 'one legion', of these latter days. They have no time nor aught to care, but mission, 'to despair, a mordicant palsy on the bloom of man.' With speed, their flashing purpose, is arrayed on every screen, like some cold ghostly 'witching hour prophesy'. I, with sangfroid poise, observe...between those moments of mad anger...wonder, whether tis a nobler beast, to crush this thing...forever! Then, in calm I grieve...knowing, 'it is done' already.
The sinner...
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
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