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richard-brautiganRichard and I went down to the park. He brought along his typewriter and settled himself under a tall tree. I laid on the grass near by with a notebook and we listened to the stream gurgle and giggle as it rushed over the smooth rocks while children played on the jungle gym across the parking lot.

Richard clicked away on his typewriter happily. The warm breeze blew over us and flipped his folder open scattering a few pages from his latest manuscript. I watched him amused as he ran after the pieces of paper. When he returned he was out of breath. He found a dry rock and placed it over his over his folder and continued typing.

“You know,” I said smugly. “Computers don’t blow away in the wind.”

“No,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Not literally.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“The delete button is all too easy to hit,” he answered. “It’s virtual wind.”

I mulled this over in my mind for a moment and agreed.

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