Jenny Sit was stroking the "x" key too many times in her seventh grade typing class. It's because her attention drifted. Mr. Sit is a philosophy professor at Darkmount, but they seldom pondered abstract issues at the dinner table. It was on its own accord that Jenny's mind found itself asking about "meaning". What does it mean? What makes me tick? Do I tick? Is it romance? Is it movies and novels? xxxx Do they provide direction, or are they quick fixes? Is it music? Is it just this beige typewriter, with its missing 7 key? Will I find out later? xxxx Should I ask Dad?

She ended up asking him at the dinner table, sixteen years later. How do I know that my life has any meaning? I love to do things, and I love certain people, but I don't understand movies. They strike nerves. I feel like I've missed the boat, not to have done what the heroes in movies have done.

He bit his buttered roll and answered, 58 years later. He was 116 years old. They sat at his glass table, face to face. This time, she had cooked for him. It was a plain meal, but the china was elegant and priceless. "I figured out the meaning thing," he said, "the raison d'être issue." Jenny Sit sat and stared. "It's your beige typewriter with its missing key." (xxxx)

Jenny Sit was stroking the "x" key too many times in her seventh grade typing class. It's because her attention drifted. Mr. Sit is a philosophy professor at Darkmount, but they seldom pondered abstract issues at the dinner table. It was on its own accord that Jenny's mind found itself asking about "meaning". What does it mean? What makes me tick? Do I tick? Is it romance? Is it movies and novels? xxxx Do they provide direction, or are they quick fixes? Is it music? Is it just this beige typewriter, with its missing key? Will I find out later? xxxx Should I ask Dad?

She ended up asking him at the dinner table, sixteen years later. How do I know that my life has any meaning? I love to do things, and I love certain people, but I don't understand movies. They strike nerves. I feel like I've missed the boat, not to have done what the heroes in movies have done.

He bit his buttered roll and answered, 58 years later. He was 116 years old. They sat at his glass table, face to face. This time, she had cooked for him. It was a plain meal, but the china was elegant and priceless. "I figured out the meaning thing," he said, "the raison d'être issue." Jenny Sit sat and stared. "It's your beige typewriter with its missing 7 key." (xxxx)