Little black symbols paint syncopated rhythms as my fingertips pause between sentences, returning faithfully to J and F, a force of habit gained from long practice.
I gaze at pictures of my mind and grasp at them with child-like awkwardness, dress them in words and send them to the patiently waiting fingers.
Wit is so tangled in my fingers that the brain can't isolate it, much like the feet don't disengage from the hearing of music in a complicated dance.
Gentle small scale acrobatics, if you think about it, so second nature it becomes, so second nature...
The backlit keys float over diminished light, enough light to guide me if I need it, but I don't, not anymore, not for a while now. The slim bumps on J and F gently nudge the tips of my fingers as hands glide on the keyboard swiftly, assuredly, fluidly, free.
Music - Crimson Throne by Door to Pengay.
