Bad angles and low lighting. Dust clouds swept into the ceiling fans, raining down on ancient writers. Crypt dwellers typing on their miracle devices, reaching for the life giving tit of attention and affection. Forever reaching, and typing. Forever repositioning their spirits to get in touch with that softness of heart, which they remember feeling so long ago. Heart beats echo in the hard heart chambers. The surface cracks and shows wear. There's a snap here and there, then steam and heat. The ancient writer taps out something honest. The ancient writer admits a weakness, and there is another crackle on the concrete surface of his suffocated heart. A walk on the dock. An honest song. A repentant prayer. Now that heart is, slightly, pulsating. The beats echo softer. Ancient writer reclaims a little gain in his entrenched heart.