It wasn't until a few moments later that she took off: she didn't have an idea, yet her fingers flew by the typewriter on an enormous speed. She had barely time to read what she was writing. She began sweating, she was no longer in control of what she was typing. She was just typing, even when the page should've been finished it just kept on going. It wasn't as if actual sentences were being typed, it was just jibber-jabber, random nonsense. She could not stop.
She tried to go away from the machine, but she was stuck as if someone glued her to the chair. The page just seemed to be endless. Amy started to scream in agony. This was a torture.
After she had sat there for a good time the pace started to slow down. Eventually the nonsense writing started to form real words. The last thing written on that endless page was: "Perhaps our language leads you."