A writer in the 50s feels the cool metal keys of his typewriter...
Keys, levers, ribbons, hammers.
I push a key,
A hammer swings,
A loud metallic noise clashes with the thoughts attempting to spill onto my paper
And it sort of hurts
So I squint, focus, and increase my concentration
Then 50 years later the metal is replaced by a quiet plastic
And nothing is new
Everything has been said
The modern world retreats
My human touch is not tangible and leaves no impression
There is no noise
There is no grit