the difference is you. i had another line, then i was looking for a typewriter face like my old green olivetti lettera. there are hundreds, but not that one. it probably exists somewhere. i miss my old olivetti, but not the drunken nights tapping drunkenly crying out in lonely anguish. this face is close enough to me. anyway, to me now. this typewriter face may be too crusty, anyway, right? maybe not. why do i dwell on peripheral things as though they are the cruxes of matter. it's a little unclear right? a little too crowded on the page in the eye. i want a way to express myself clearly then forget what i was meant to say. what was it. wind in my chest. what was it i was meant to say. doesn't matter. just—it's different today. bless me for all my faults and features each and every dog blessed day, for this is how i was made.