One of the upshots of last night was the informal beginning of the Typewriter Gang - a stalwart band of writerpoetpeoples who will roam the streets, or campus, or our houses with clunky typewriters in hand, or dragged behind us by tough strings that end in knots around our thumbs. This decision certainly made me feel more alive, especially when paired with a hookah (which is really a kind of typewriter, only the typed out characters are taken internally and then the paper comes out as smoke from your nose). We were given names and the whole thing felt like this subsidiary to the Green Street Movement or the Axis of Evil. I want to purchase myself a clunky typewriter post-haste, and become slovenly and prone to fits of madness.
Oh. Wait. Already am.