My fingers ripping at the keys, turning,
dancing across their unblemished contacts.
My ideas fold themselves like tesseracts,
imbued with haste and an unbearable yearning.
Every strike at the keys reveals more still,
Fleeting sparks that would terminate otherwise.
These flickers fade right before my eyes,
But not before my mind has had its fill.
It expounds these ideas, bringing out the best,
Sifting with a speed matched only by light.
Following that I filter till it’s just right,
Then I put the product together…and rest.