The machine is unforgiving. It is reality bled on paper. The punch of the key must be deliberate. Mistakes are indelible. Real action can’t be recalled, only regretted. Typing is as real as blood on the evening news and as unavoidable. The virtual is ephemeral, a fog until it’s printed. Even then the paper is only painted, not punched. Typing, like reality, hurts. It bruises the paper. When the letter is received, one knows an effort was made, that the writer had to sweat, that he had to meet the real, that he cared. —Martin A. Rice, Jr.
