These are my pictures:

.
.     …  „;;,>;)(8(..
.     _===-0
.@;-o0opopoioi90897678pjk[l:@JHyF)(87&*67*89)o:’;@

.
.
     h h h nnno    5ruouuuuupowpiuu — with each tap I get a per­fect note. Each impulse res­ults in another per­fect character.

Each line and

                                                                          space
 
 
 
con­trolled by my whim. punc­tu­ation is, mine;     Me con­trols
          grammar.

                                    This can­vas has deftly been stretched and stapled. So lov­ingly did I set my, scene:. This blank page has every novel already writ­ten pressed inside it (hanging over it).

          The

          whole
 
 
of his­tory is mine to p  l  a  y with. No doubt I will squander this hon­our, I expect I shall bypass this privilege  .  .  .

                                                                          )it’s because I like the tap­ping
so much(

(it’s because I like that I know where the lety=ters are)

.  .  . I’ll prob­ably just spend my time doing
this:

iue­hfruivs­gigf­d­jkhjk­vfd

    iof­hiofdh iof­di­hjgd kgf­d­hkhi­uehlf­soldigfv fls­djhjk­fg­dhb dl’

gihguf­hjkgfd k;gfd
df
g
fu ogfiug’
gfd
gfuigfdu gfd’i
gfd
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
(like when I was a child and used to pre­tend I worked in an office.)

Lydia Unsworth is 27, and from Manchester. She stud­ied art, but liked writ­ing about it bet­ter. She often runs away to for­eign coun­tries, gets dis­il­lu­sioned and comes home again. She is cur­rently study­ing Maths, which is prob­ably a reac­tion against some­thing. She writes at Get­ting Over the Moon.