the page always beckons but pushes away. Like a twat, like a pussy denying being denied. The page is like a pussy that doesn’t want to be open or folded, neither torn nor cut. but you can push on it, leaves marks across it. let it everyone know you’ve been there.
And stroking the keyboard is like her hand on your cock, sliding palm up along your balls, the fingers dancing along the tips, making words out of your dick, making your dick say things. making it difficult to understand the difference between the idea and the grammar.