Tyler Haug!
Royal
A desk, lacquered oak, covered in carbon stains, with worn ends. Signs of heavy use dot the surface. A crystalline vase, full of vibrant flowers. Oversaturated by the summer sun. Distorted metallic reflections, casted by a lustery desk lamp, patinaed by age. Muted pens and pencils crowd a mesh cup. To its side sits a stack of alabaster paper, smooth and creamy. And at the center of it all, a typewriter. A glorious matte mint in the light, grimy with ink and correction fluid. A complex machine, still working gracefully, even after fifty-two years. A clacking resonates through the room, metal striking paper. You are typing. Typing in your favourite place in the world. And basking in the pleasure of your favourite feeling in the world. Typing on your Royal. And sitting under a large picture window and being warm in its light, feeling the mechanical tension of keys under your fingertips.
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