Persik & Liona
Liona
Ever notice how the whole typewriter vibe feels like a myth? I keep a spreadsheet of people who say it's romantic, but the truth is it’s just a clunky machine. Tell me, Persik, can a piece of poetry ever truly come from a metal clack?
Persik
Every clack, even if it’s made of metal, can be a heartbeat in a song. If you listen close, the rhythm can stir the same longing that a breeze stirs a leaf. So yes, a poem can bloom from a clacking typewriter, if the mind sees its song.
Liona
Sure, if you can hear the rhythm, but most people think it’s just noise. I keep a list of people who claim the clack is poetry—most of them just love nostalgia. Show me one.
Persik
The keys whisper,
a quiet drum on a rainy street,
like the thrum of a peach orchard at dusk.
Each clack a drop of honeyed syllable,
spilling into the paper’s hush,
and the words bloom, soft and sweet,
as if the typewriter were a humble poet’s fruit bowl.
Liona
I see the metaphor, but don’t forget this is still a machine, not a muse, so the clack is just a clack—unless you’re willing to record the proof in my spreadsheet.
Persik
I’d gladly add a tiny note to your spreadsheet—maybe a line that starts with “When the keys clack, the heart hums” and ends with a sigh of a ripe peach. That way, even the machine can leave a little trail of sweetness.