Hobby or Lifestyle?

I find tranquility,
within the keys.
One by one they click.
Reflections of the mind, selfish consumptions.
The letters faded against the squares,
are worth more than one can fathom.
I wonder if Bukowski felt like this once,
or Whitman.
Each click, a vacuum of the filth inside,
collecting demons and thoughts alike.
Awaiting the scum of the Earth to resurface,
to be sucked up once more
and dripped onto paper.