Act. Word. Scene. WORDS

Lights up.

A single spotlight on a beautifully old type writer.

It types.

Type writer. I do not know what to say but I know I am supposed to say something I cannot simply stay stagnant because then I fear that I will cease to exist so I just type and type and type for my life I type and type for my soul I type and I type so that I will not die. Do you think I will die? I think I will die I fear the day that my ribbon will run out I fear the day that people will stop slooking at me I fear the day my stamps of the little beautiful letters will become old and rusted. I love you. I miss you. Com eback to me. Come back little sheba come back. I cannot function without you. Nothing feels right without you. I feel like you complete me. I hate this... this living. I hate this feeling this feeling of nothing. It has been so long since I have felt something. God knows, if I had wrists I would slit them. God knows if I had balls I would cut them of. God knows if I had Guts I would hurl them up and make you look. God knows If I had a backbone what I'd be doing. What would Id be doing/ I wouldn't be here I wouldn't be there. I would be somehweres over theres. Dear God. I forgot how to write. Dear god I forgot how to breath. I am so scared. I amIamamamamamamamamamamamam Help. Please. My stamps. My keys. My ribbon. My life My soul My eyes are becoming like stones and slowly chipping away. And I think the milkman is having an off day.