bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonn...

This is what somebody with nothing to type, who cannot write, with nothing to say, this is an example of what their fingers might type, what the brain could say. 

They begin with: I'm a confession machine. 

And they expand by going: I have buttons and slots and dials cos I think I'm a confession machine but I'm not any kind of machine.

That's how this person begins. 

And they continue: Insert an imaginary currency, anything, whatever, a metal disc, a bent coin or ripped note or you can use credit card or Visa Debit or pay by cheque.

On that information, the somebody with nothing to type to say, they elaborate: Insert a beak or any kind of fish tail and I'll tell some memories, which can be lies or truth or an oil splattered brain splattered canvas. I don't know. 

And this person, a machine with shit to express, they end with this: God I'm scared tonight. Yes. I wish I could type as to why I've got this dread this fear about life. But it's boring. I'm far away from home but what I think is my home isn't my home. My gut is twirling. God is a mountain. Any hill. Any tree. God is William Shakespeare. A comet with flaming long hair. He had much to scribble, to say. I got nothing but I feel less alone and I feel more centred by uttering the nothing for my fingers to type and my brain floating in its box to say. I'm gonna have a smoke and then piss about online and then read and then sleep and then tomorrow. God. I'll take a train to the city where I'll damage my life.

So this is all the volts the machine has to confess. 

Goodnight.