There are leaves that are drifting in the breeze, following the flow of air to some destination where they shall to have found on their own, for the breeze knows where to go and the leaves know to follow it as it travels.

It is the safest way for them to spread and the safest way for them to discover new lands that they had not seen before in their lives.

Of course leaves do not have eyes and do not experience the world… or do they?

There is a breeze outside that is lightly moving a branch outside the window near me. I can see it slightly moving, remaining attached and yet still being flexible.

Well, of course it is flexible. It is not the thickest of branches and the breeze is strong enough to make it bend slightly.

Well, even the thickest of branches could bend if there was a breeze strong enough to command it to bend to its blowing wind.

I don’t know what I’m writing right now.

I thought I was going to go on some sort of pseudo-poetic story and yet I have nothing right now.

All I know is that my fingers are flying as fast as they can, away from my hands and off into the distance.

I know that I need to chase them, yet there are words that need to be written and there is not enough time in he world to do both. I am sure that when they are done with their wild, grand adventure around the office, they will return and firmly reattach themselves to my hands, for there is no escape at the moment unless someone leaves a door open, in which they may just be able to get downstairs and then outside and fly through the streets, exploring every nook and cranny that they can get themselves upon, generally having a fun time whilst I sit here and try to keep on typing out whatever it is that I am trying to type out, struggling away because it would be harder to type without my fingers, for the keys on this keyboard would not be big enough for me to type out the words that I am trying to type unless I typed really slowly.

Well, slower than I currently am typing. I certainly would be far more inhibited than I am right now.

I would very much prefer that my fingers did not fly off and go somewhere, for that would not only make typing hard, but also everything else than I do with my time that involves the use of fingers, such as picking up a bottle, and tapping my fingers on the table in some sort of rhythmic pattern that I would like to believe that only I can discern, but of course not because it would be audible enough for everyone around me to hear.

Well, they can have a journey but they do need to make sure that they return.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 05:53:53

Well… something.

This certainly is wordy.

Written at work.