One day I hope to accidently write what needs to be written.
A thousand monkeys on a thousand typewriters and all that? No.
One day a monkey will write something, a configuration of signs, which is perfectly meaningless to the other monkey that picks it up. Nevertheless, in the cut of the arrangement between falling-grasped paper, the desk, the chair and the chains, something will spark, perhaps off a lone bright sunbeam directed off a passing car through a slit of a window. It will catch the eye of the monkey and the weight of the task, of the sound and fury of nine hundred and ninety eight monkeys typing on nine hundred and ninety eight typewriters. It will compound and condense and drive the monkey to pause, to be silent in all this meaningless fury. He will breathe and crush this feeble piece of paper in a ball, and the fist will feel good, it will feel powerful, it will feel like something that shouldn’t be used to strike the keys of the typewriter. The fist will feel wrong. The paper screwed up in his little balled fist will tear and rip slightly, yet the monkey will drop the paper for he now has a new object in the shape of the fist, something in front of his little screwed up face, something that shouldn’t be used to strike the keys of the typewriter. He hits the table slamming his fist down, hard, and his co-worker on another table hears the sound and it registers above the din of nine hundred and ninety seven monkeys typing on nine hundred and ninety seven typewriters out of a thousand. He lets out a whoop, and slams some more. He gets up on his chair and stands as much as his chains will allow him, to his full restricted height. Others turn and raise their heads to gaze at this unknown thing that is not a hand held aloft in front of the little mokey’s screwed-up face and which should not be used to strike the keys of the typewriter. It is a fist and it feels wrong. Others now stand, and whoop, some screech, the sound has changed, and everything has changed. Their hands fashioned into tools to strike the keys of a typewriter can become something else. They are excited, the sound becomes more furious. Twenty nine monkeys type on twenty nine typewriters out of a thousand for they are deaf from half a lifetime or more of typing in a room with the other nine hundred and seventy one monekys on nine hundred and seventy one typewriters, and they are slow, and they don’t hear the sounds, but eventually they smell the change and feel the difference in the air. There is too much and not enough movement at the same time. There is one monkey who does not move, and hasn’t for a few hours now, for he is dead, and has been for a few hours now. Most recently, this last dead monkey is the first that did not move and did not strike the keys of one of a thousand typewriters. The monkey with the fist screeches and whoops and rocks back and forth in his chains. The chair slides and scrapes on the floor amongst the hours of shit and piss. The monkey takes his fist into the air above his head and waves it aloft and the air above his head around his fist is heavy with the putrid stench of hours of shit and piss, but the monkey knows know other smell. It is in this putrid air that something passes along with the sound of a scrap of paper forgotten and full of meaningless signs, and with scraping chairs, and with whooping monkeys. Something catalyses in the large slit-windowed room around his fist, something that feels right just as it feels wrong. He brings his fist down upon the typewriter and indeed it is something that should not be used to strike the keys of the typewriter, because the typewriter breaks and flees from his fist in a thousand pieces. The fist is of the room where the monkey accidentally picked up another’s trigger of meaningless writing. The accidental configuration of the meaninglessness with everything is precisely that which triggers the fist, the force that destroys the machine of monkey enslavement.