They sit, straight back, calling themselves to attention.
Their arms, from tense shoulders to quivering palms, are locked into position.
The fingers will be pistons.
A dream begs to be made tangible.
Take a long drag on a cigarette, for inspiration.
The fingers do not move.
Another whiskey (double measure, always).
Ignore the red biro.
My fingers will be pistons.
Pour another whiskey.
My fingers do not move.
Tea & Transparency 