https://medium.com/@nkolakowski/ode-to-a-white-apple-macbook-8d656f01f71a

Sometimes I feel like apologizing for the narrow crack that runs along the keyboard of my white MacBook, like a fissure of black water opening in an endless expanse of arctic ice. And then I remember the circumstances under which the plastic cracked — a hard jostle on the Pan-American Highway, just outside of Managua, to avoid a brightly painted school bus filled with villagers — and I know that things could have been so much worse.

I also feel like apologizing (now and then, at least) for the discolored keys, until I remember that dirt and oil is the side-effect of a million-odd words written via this machine, over five years. Words written on planes to Tokyo, Havana, Rome, Tulsa, Montreal, Miami, Munich, London, Los Angeles, and points in-between. Words written in the backs of trucks, in the backseats of tiny cars, in trailers and miniature houses and half-constructed mansions jutting over the sides of tropical cliffs.