Venus insufficiency

To explore the labyrinthine interiors, to somehow peer through the clouding flesh and see whether the words chalked at the back of her mind were "I love you".
The machine lay before him on the turquoise rug; it was an ageing Underwood, its beautiful black carcass breaking into rust where life had left its mark. The ink reels sat exposed on two parallel pins like the turrets of a mechanical castle, the red and black ribbon drawn taut before the waiting hammers; some never returning fully to their rest, sitting proud within the interior of the mechanism. The reels were simple to remove; slipping over the pins the ribbon pulled free from the body of the typewriter. He carefully unrolled the largest reel and examined the ribbon carefully against a sheet of A4. He could read fragments of words, sometimes whole sentences; slowly, laboriously, he could distill some part of her interior through the words she had rendered in type; words petrified in the ribbon like insects in amber. He spent long nights trying to break the cipher of the ribbon; but like her, the closer he looked the more questions arose, infinite meanings, conjecture given life through his own imagination. Over the years he gradually became disconnected from living, lost in these wanderings; analysis taking root where love had once stood.