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Fingers | Nov 07 2005

I like watching my fingers as I type. They seem to move on their own. It happens faster than I can will it. For a time now they’ve been still. It’s as though they’re thinking. My fingers are thinking. They think and act, think and act. I sit in silence and watch. They seem to be waiting for something. Then comes a burst of activity. They have things to do, places to be, such busyness. This is followed by stillness. A long stillness this time. More considered. Drawn out. It’s a kind of brooding. I lift my fingers from the keys. For a single sentence, this sentence, they move without me.