There is a silence between the keys—a space that precedes the touch, like the moment before a kiss. Each letter, like a different skin, reacts to my finger in a unique way. Some resist, others give in. The typewriter, like the body, holds within itself the mystery of what will be said — and what will be felt. Writing is touching. And touching is deciding: whether I will nourish or degrade. Sometimes I think words have texture. There are phrases that run like honey, others that scratch like glass. It depends on the state of the world within me — and the world that touches me. Because that's what touch does: it reveals, it summons, it denounces. The entire universe vibrates between what elevates us and what consumes us. I have experienced touches that healed wounds that I didn't even know existed. And I also experienced caresses that left me more alone than silence. The same gesture, the same apparent intention — but in opposite directions. It all depends on who plays. And how we choose to be touched. Writing, for me, is this: a field of sensations. The machine responds as the body responds—with truth. She doesn't lie. The paper doesn't pretend. If the word comes bitter, there is no flower that can disguise it. But when sweets come... oh, when sweets come, it seems like the universe itself sighs. As if each letter wanted to prolong that moment. As if time stopped for a while, just to feel. There are words that light up places inside me that I didn't even know how to name. And when that happens, I'm not just writing—I'm being written too. Maybe that's why I love this dance between fingers and words so much. It is an exchange of intimacies, a silent ritual that reveals more than any confession said out loud. Each text that comes from me carries a little of the woman I was at that moment. A version of me that only existed there, between one keystroke and another, between the desire to say and the fear of being read too much. And yet, I write. I write because I need to feel. I write because there is an undeniable pleasure in transforming touch into language. And language in presence. As if the paper turned into leather. As if the reader, even from a distance, could touch me back with his eyes.