dear type writer,
you are so palpably pleasing. i could readily manifest a romance (novel) with you, and as my closest penchant, undulate through the night till my digital delight and attention borders on obsession indeed!
when we are apart i can hear the symphony of the keys start, and the charming euphony that ensues as your haunting ring returns and sings to me alluringly.
this siren memory, spurs such a splendid picture, one almost as tangible as the pleasure of me touching you. oh how these dreams press me against you and unfold feral tomes of inadequate words in my head!
oh, how i could easily be wed to some sort of spontaneous fetish for watching a creamy naked lady with a red tress type at you whilst lying on her belly during some whimsical lunch hour! and how, ensembles, you would empower us to write some winsome story about the glory of spontaneity appeased.
a spurious thought equally teasing would be to have me just as bare, tied and blindfolded there to the posts of her bed in a flat overlooking a river, wistfully listening to her quiver in the breeze whilst wantonly playing Strauss lithely upon your black and letter-white keys. oh, quite how indubitably this type writer would please me by tapping your music to no end.
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l.m