It's not typing, it's writing.

I'm deforesting my own treeline.
Letters of great length are being writing that will never be sent. They pile up into a flammable heap in the corner of the dining room. Produced but unedited, unrevised and unread. Already a huge stack has been condemned to the recycle can and I'm sure to produce even more useless material.

There is no Beloved any longer and I am trying my best to square with that.