I want my keys to make the pop pop turning it up sound.  Why even use the word turning… why indeed.  Why shouldn’t my typing sound like something more than little plastic mouse feet?  Why come to the page when I might be composing emails good god that everyone on earth can see I ought to be doing.  But lawdy I can’t whip up even more stuffing for a life that might just as well, in fact, be merely pouring the tea into the cup, in my lucky life where the cup is gorgeous and the teapot is the longest-term temporary teapot I’ve ever had because I am waiting waiting for the next one to show up, and perhaps on theme, it has still not presented itself.  I never have to look for these things, they find me, try it try it live like it’s a dr seuss rhyme, play around with your life.  The finger of god taps me on the head as I rise up from the awe-faint, I can’t tell if it was forceful or if I was just rising too fast, but the hole it made let the voice in.  I am shocked to see work that might not be Shadow Matrix but there it is.  I tell it, Take a number, hunny.