A typewriter, and life.
The steady, kinda brain-numbing symphony the little metal alphabets made when your fingertips make the fastest but lingering, intimate contact. The old typewriter comes heavy, sometimes expensive and without delete key. It accomodates no room for errors and with just one single mistake, would literally lay waste to whatever you might have painstakedly accomplished and the resources. And yet you can't stop typing. For when you do, you stop living. You stop making anything happen.
The silence and rust would set in, becoming overbearing. You could only sit in that chair watching as your life slowly falls apart, a gradual obliteration masked by time and a shoulder shrug. So type. Live life, with a discipline, with whatever you chose to do, steered by whatever philosophy and motives.
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