A note on familiarity and transience My $15 keyboard has survived a year of the wars. A year of cat hair. There may be more if it between its keys than what remains on the resident cat collective. A year of , "What the hell did I spill on here last night and do I want to know?" A year of friends found friends lost friends expelled toward exile. A year of madness and alcohol rage, long winters and cigarette ash depression, and stifling humidity minor victories and amicable separations. Perhaps a key removal Windex spit shine is in order. But I admit a certain fondness for your new fuzzy scarred bedraggled appearance. It is fitting. Besides, that cleaning idea reeks of effort that would exceed the cost of a new shiny $15 keyboard.