There is a strange poetry in the phrase
End of draft. Backspace if necessary.
Once, writing was a chisel. A hammer. You carved into stone, into papyrus, into the thin skin of a letter. Every word cost something—time, space, a drop of ink that could never be un-spilled. Mistakes were permanent. You learned to think before you moved your hand. typista beta
Most of what you read online is not finished. It cannot be finished. A tweet is a snapshot of a neuron firing. A blog post is a time-lapse of an obsession. A comment is a reflex dressed in syntax. There is a strange poetry in the phrase End of draft
