It starts subtly. You are in a flow, a river of words, when your finger presses the letter ‘A’. The key goes down with a soft, reassuring thock . But it does not come up. It stays there, hunched and guilty, like a child caught in a lie.
But there is a strange poetry in it, too. The stick key is the only letter that protests. Every other key springs back to attention, eager for the next command. The stick key, however, lingers. It holds on a half-second too long, like a handshake that turns into a grasp. It is the typo that breathes.
Eventually, you fix it. A blast of compressed air. A gentle wiggle. The key rises with a reluctant click . The ghost is exorcised. You delete the endless row of ‘A’s and begin again, typing a little softer now, a little more aware of the fragile bridge between your mind and the machine.