The cursor must move. This cursor has to move. This blinking cursor will move. I will chase this scampering cursor all across the screen and I will stumble over words and I will look a fool, but I will make this little fucking cursor move. Come ‘ere, you little shit, I say, deftly avoiding loose punctuation. The cursor ignores my call. The hour grows late – the urge to chase often comes at late hours – my mind wearies while the cursor darts. With bloodied knee and dirtied face, I sit in the pale screenlight hunched over and exhausted by all my effort, unsatisfied but for the feeling of living. The cursor cares not. It winks quietly at me, knowing that it will always be just a little ahead of me leaping before I know where I’m going. | _ |
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