Last night, I was clearing out my uncle's attic, for he had passed away just recently, and as I set into motion locking the door completely, shutting the space away for good, I saw, tucked towards the back, an old wooden box, perfectly camouflaged by the dust of fallen decades. I threw the door open again thinking nothing of it, more annoyed at having to climb back into the small recess; barely spacious enough to fit a body. I took my annoyance out on the box and kicked it, only to be engulfed by a whirlwind of dust that flew from the blasted thing! My impulse to kick out had somehow managed to shift the lid clean off the top and there in front of me, lying destitute and as appearance would denote, forgotten, was the body of a typewriter. 'Good Lord’, I said aloud, not believing luck could present itself in such a willing way. For luck of this...