"At last," cried the writer. He picked up a package from the front step and carried it inside in both arms. "It's here!" He brought it up the stairs and set it down before his family: His wife, their two children, and his uncle, all of whom looked up from the dining table. He made space among the remains of their dinner, his nearly untouched, and grabbed up the breadknife to cut it open.

A moment later, plastic packing bubbles littered the near-empty plates. The writer lifted from the box a typewriter, glorious in its severe black, mechanical form, and howled in glee.

He ran the few steps to his desk, where he swept a pencil and paper to the floor and shoved aside his computer to make space. Running its cable down to the nearest outlet, he called out, "My era of unproductivity is over! Finally, I can write while avoiding the distractions of the modern age!" He gestured at his computer, and then gesturally threw it away. "Now give me space!"

His family cleaned up the dinner and the packaging as the writer wound fresh paper into his brand-new typewriter and sat before it.

And sat.