Telepath Zero
Telepath-Zero	$12.95
Telepath Medium
Telepath-Medium	$19.95
Telepath Extreme
Telepath-Extreme	$19.95
Telepath Loaded
Telepath-Loaded	$19.95

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Design Credits

First seen on MyFonts: March 17th, 2003
Designed by: Joseph Coniglio
Contained in Category: Monospaced
Design owned by: Coniglio Type
MyFonts Keywords: dirty typewriter, grunge, monospace, simulation, typewriter

Telepath

Telepath is a master sampling of a Royal office typewriter of industrial strength provided by the Miller Furniture store, of Dunkirk, New York. It had a baseline set of numbers to make accounting practices easy and line up nice on the statements. No gentile old fashioned numerical accenders and decenders. Yet, this was a rather old and stolid machine, but very luxurious and built to definitely take the test of time. Cudos for Royal Typewriter Company is all I can say. This set was very carefully manufactured and has fallen into the preferred category for a typewriter font that has it all, including various weights. I used Hans Miller’s typewriter while I hen pecked the story below. The font has exceptional value as a text font and a display font. It contains a great deal of graphic information and doesn't spike at higher sizes.

The Telepath Series presents strikingly handsome typewriter fonts with a uniquely intuitive difference. Unlike the original source material—scans of monospaced typewriter copy, every font is painstakingly hand kerned for your most demanding copyfitting work in justified or casually ragged settings for print or the www. Each variation offers a distinctly different personality, from the conservatively tasteful, text-worthy stability of the highly legibile Medium to the progressively distressed characteristics of its wayward sibblings. All CONIGLIO Type fonts are 100% embeddable.

I used Hans Miller’s grandfathers typewriter while I hen pecked the journal entry below below:

I was passing through Tecumcari, NM as a young man in 1974. I was waiting for a road partner to come out of a gasoline station as I sat parked on the side of a tree lined residential street. We were leaving the cold dead of winter behind in western New York and off to California.

While I waited a round cheeked spanish woman, was making corn tortillas in her window. Her wooden shutters open to the little one story adobe bungalow, the air quiet, warm, the daylight, dusk. She paid no attention as I watched her hand press the corn laiden flour dough onto a flat gridle. I was mesmerized and she knew I was watching her.

I can still hear the sizzle, and see her plump had pressing them down. I can still remember the smell. Someone was very lucky that night to sit down to that kind of dinner.

Always on the move, never staying still, a witness hardly a participant. Me and my kind we were on the run, far from home. Aromas of tortillas, gasoline, public urinals, greasy eggs, smoke and drink. The look of worn cowboy boots, the taste of sour wine, dirty dogs and funky kings, shell bracelets, waist length hair, slanted eyes, iron crosses and acceleration in a cloud of pungent herb. Carl Hill had a couple of vending machine sandwiches ripe with green looking coldcuts and an expiration date on the label, saying the sandwich was still good for another 6 months! The car revved up and I pulled away, once more, driving back to the darkness of never belonging.

No messages on the answering machine at home when I returned, just bills in the mailbox, barefoot on the sticky kitchen floor. No more cap guns, or call to supper, or swinging on the porch chair watching the fire flies.

So I dream of walking my two dogs I don't have yet on some dusty path in Northern New Mexico that’s all I want. And I've taken a wife since then which has made me much happier while creating a brand new set of challenges.

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