There're hairs on the keyboard. Long, straight dainty ones, and it can only mean one thing. You're thinking too much. Take your foot off the gas, bring the needle out of the red, and for god's sake stop pulling out your hair.
But the strands, they keep descending in front of mine eyes. One by one and two by two, they float down from the hand that releases them. An idle hand. A hand with an agenda, as it twirls and pulls and twirls and pulls until it finds those crossed ends and flickers with delight so that the hair comes out at the folicle. To be certain, there is no desire in my mind for this. I like my hairs, I like the way they feel. And so, why should I ever be rid of them? Because it is not my decision alone, I suppose. There's a factor of division, and that decision lies on the other side, carried out by the tide on some sea of subconscious. There's someone behind the veil, playing jacks with the wizard. On the line: human hair. And I'm paying the penance. So why don't I just stop? S-T-O-P. I spell it out in my head, in a voice with bravado and a clenched jaw. I look down at my hands, their fingers outstretched before me. They coil at the joints and relax. I've taken control again and they're waiting for instruction. To the keyboard and the battle is won. But I fear the war is far from over.
