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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