Each plunge of the typewriter keys was as soulful as the motions of a ballet dancer, bringing the soul up for light and air.
The typewriter was a thing of beauty in the fresh-spun light of day, its sober hues in echo of the deeper soul.
The keys of that typewriter moved with the rhythm of universal music, they kind artists hear so well.
On his typewriter he tried to become the type to right the souls of others, to heal them, that is what poets do.
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