Fisrt he was arifad, he was ptfeierid.
He spnet so mnay ngihts wderniong why it wnet so wnorg. So he tpyed snortg. And leerand to witre anlog.
And he was bcak.
Form Iennr Scape.
He jsut tpyed wohtuit a sputid look upon his fcae. He dd’nit need to chnage the look, he d’ndit eevn hvae a fcae.
But he was bcak.
And his iennr fraes he faecd.
No feet to wlak the folor, no need to fnid the door, no way to trun aronud, but he was wolmcee, he was srue.
He dd’int msis a key, he di’ndt tmbule, ddni’t hdie…
Oh no, not he…
He mrleey tpeyd and tyepd and tpeyd…
And he scefufid.
Wtih all his wrods to tpye, with all his kyes to psers.
He.
Did.
Suficfe.
Fingers apologises for borrowing Gloria’s words, as he saw them, for this post.
Fingers is one of my many Inner Beings, or Aspects, who make the occasional appearances on my blog. Please do not worry if they make no sense to you... they make no sense to me either!
The Mansionic Perspective 
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