Keys.

Long time no see. For now, on what should be a hectic schedule, the keys are not my friends. I take full ink pens to bed to cope with my hallucinations and emotions. They express themselves without disdain, but they judge me. The keyboard screams labors, it is the tool procrastination sent to bother me. Ink returns me to me. They undress my furtive soul and draw me. They allow the possibility of an incomprehensive nonsense. The library befriends the keys for a while, but the foul smelling book worming students pull me out of the chair and invite me to a world of calm quiet blank pages and pens. Ink go with pajamas, keys go with jeans and dirty shoes.