His fingers work tirelessly, darting forward to seek out their target and, like hummingbirds, they are gone again, seeking new purchase. His heartbeat finds the rhythm of his strokes upon the keys and he grows flush with the effort. A missive spreads itself out before him, shaped by the length of his thoughts, broadened by the girth of his vocabulary. He holds his breath tight in his chest. He can feel the finish is approaching, but he isn’t ready just yet.
Anwering Email: The Romance Novelist at Home, from McSweeney’s Internet Tendency
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humour
