A lucky conscious so much so that words without meaning form under the clicking of my fingernails. Plugging in, and swapping out with algorithmic precision.
My hands know something that I do not. I envy them. Envy, because they are the maker behind the mask. The unsung and unseen hero of my conquests.
My conquests, but my hands separate from my mind. This is not self-envy (if that's even logical).
Just like passing that test you didn't know the answers to I feel I cheat the world. Claiming rights to words not mine,