He went into the bedroom and began packing up his Remington portable: got the dusty case out from under the desk, set the machine inside, hit the spacer a few times till it was centered and would fit, and closed the cover.
What fiend ever gave the name portable to a portable. It was a dead weight that dragged you down, held you back, it pulled your arm out of the shoulder-socket, it fixed you fast to one spot on the sidewalk. It was a solid block of lead, but lead that would become pure gold if you could drag it far enough.
He gazed through the glass...There was a portable typewriter plastered with the peeling souvenirs of European travel.
|Just out for a bit of typing in the park.|
|Hm...little heavy, for an Underwood.|
|Oh jeeze, this Olympia's KILLING ME!|
|BROKEN DRAWN BAND!|
Anybody got similar passages they'd like to share?
Power to the pen!