The sound of the pop in the springs beneath the keys as I type, the rusty take in of air that echoes down my throat till it reaches my lungs. The thousands of pixels generating images.
The images, of work.
Blood vains, the same colour as the Scarlet Red Crayola crayon on my desk, brighten faster then my fingers can type. The white in my eyes without delay changes to red as if they have just been painted by a child with too much paint on their messy paintbrush.
But I still work.
A roll of the wrist cracks not even a countable number of knuckles and joints. It doesn't hurt but what does hurt is the sound of the hand still ticking.
But I still keep typing.
The hand screams what I do not listen to as I still continue to work. Eye lids close yet they take long to pull their weight back. Red wine surrounding my pupil reveals a mirror of my screen.
But hands keep moving,
Until, moving hand doesn't move no more and the rust is longer there. The aching weight of the lids are just too heavy to lift up again.
The work stops.
The next night is to come. My hand but is still numb.