The disembodied hands of Westwood


At night I like to type on the laptop, but don’t want to look at or see the glow of the screen, so I fold it down, so only my fingers are illuminated, my veins in contrast, the muscles moving in practiced fashion on hands grown weary from overuse, the tendons like weary rubber bands. As a human you are not old, but these fingers have mileage on them. (Which is why you have to write with your brain, not your fingers). But what must that look like to a neighbor, from 20 or so feet away, just two spectral hands moving in a blue light glow? Like a disembodied keyboardist, continuing to tinker and plunk at the keys. And then finally, starting to really play.

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