There’s nothing like the clickity-clack of the keys of your favorite typewriter putting the words from your brain directly onto the paper. No printer in the world can so effectively take the thoughts directly from your mind and write them out in front of you with such forceful grace. There is power in the written word being permanently pressed, with no chance to escape, lest the writer start over and destroy his art. These words have just started to exist, and their permanence will remain so long as the wood they are written on is preserved. Right or wrong doesn’t mean anything to this machine—only the truth of the ink bleeding into the medium. The typewriter is the ultimate servant to its master. It doesn’t argue whether what it says should be uttered or, in this case, read. It doesn’t resist when the topic is too hard; it doesn’t sleep when the subject is light. It only knows what it is told, and what it is told, it is obligated to tell. Anyone can type the words they feel to be the truth. Anyone can bring their inner thoughts to life. These keys are a window to the soul; these letters are proof that the person was thinking and recording memories of their muse.