Writing would be so much more fun with a typewriter, she muses, scrolling down a set of pictures of a friend’s latest acquisition. It is a particularly captivating specimen in shining red and black. Those keys- she can already see, in her mind’s eye, the strings of words that will jump to the fore as their owner drums down on them. Plot-lines waiting since months will perhaps be inscribed in a matter of days. Maybe they’ll even last longer in people’s memories because of the old-fashioned medium used to draw them out. Somehow, that which belongs to the older generation – songs, buildings, relationships-tends to have a familiarity that defies an ending. She looks for it in everyday things- paper letters instead of emails, dried pressed flowers, fingers on fingers instead of Skype screens. But like everything else today, old familiar comfort is incredibly scarce and comes at a price she can barely afford. And so she backs off from the pictures of the shiny red typewriter, and goes back to the squished laptop keys. Because, honestly, it’s about the story. And any writing is better than none at all.