If, after years of writing nearly everything meant for public consumption on a keyboard, which has always (except for that brief stint with Dvorak) been a most reliable intermediary, you pick up a pen and write, with trepidation, spooling out each letter, something (not even your own) to be read and acted upon, and on which hangs what you (alas, still) believe to be the most significant portion of your life, you too may find that you are making uncertain signs, from the entirety down to the jots and strokes: you have never closed your a properly, your r is canted precipitously close to v: it is a wonder to commit such a leaky boat to the waters of meaninglessness when it holds something so irreplaceable.