I knew it like the back of my hand

Then I looked at it. It was very foreign indeed. I had five little men standing at attention, gazing at me. "What?" I asked, suspiciously. A few of them tremble, maybe giggled, I can't tell. I look down at their clothes and I find that the skin is bunched up at their bellies, like a troubled face, lines on a forehead. Funny thing, these men. Most of the time they ache to find something more beneath the keyboard, hitting squares and forming words. They bend themselves around my purple pencil, the one with its rubber grip worn off--they were drunk at that time--and twist the lead flakes into flowers and words. And they like to feel, oh no, not sad and happy, but rather, smooth and soft, sharp and hot. Sometimes they jerk and scream and I roll my eyes at how annoying they are, these strange little men. Sometimes they strain and try to pull from me, these silly little men. They want to see the world on their own; they can't!

I will help them. I will bring them there.