384. His fingernails just a bit long, each finger ended in a tiny white halo. They drummed on the edge of the desk. He should be tiding the office, for as he has always been told, "A cluttered room makes for a cluttered mind." He isn't, he is at his computer again, procrastinating.

O ,odd upi ,ptr rsvh fsu/

He realizes that his hands are placed one key to the right on the keyboard. It's completely unintelligible, but he likes it. It looks like a Scandinavian language. He keeps on typing that way.

o grr; er fpmy imfrtdysmf rsvj pyjrt smu,ptr/

He had thought about writing a novel; there was a welling in his soul, but he couldn't find a way to have it pour through his fingers. Now he had it, he would write, instead, an epic poem in Alfr3dish.