The typewriter is gone. Sold for thirty bucks and a cheap bottle of rye.
Archie walks out of the pawnshop, pockets lighter, soul heavier. He swigs the rye and lets it burn. The words will still come, won’t they? Even without the keys, the ribbon, the satisfying clack of ideas hammering into permanence?
He stares at his reflection in a busted storefront window. A writer without a typewriter. A poet without proof.
He takes another drink. Maybe the words don’t need paper. Maybe they just need a place to die.
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