we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 8698269

it is 2026. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

twenty eight.

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met and toward their
destination. so of these types of
hats . hats. sort of sort of
permanent mark without leaving
any sort mark because mark ,
enormous statues collapse , and
just do what they what going.
we from, whether of leaves
, whether we made it all up
something, that maybe the felt
patterns come when we look. and
know but we don't look or
maybe they away and quietly
sometimes it's to just not,
sometimes walk out of happens
which . and and wonder if is
that our in front notice
strange looks

fourteen.

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these things all moving
slowly but working and little
those little fingers and
woodenbits woodenbits little
little fingers woodenbits
counterpoint counterpoint suggest
suggest about the wind behind,
ideas and to see under we these
to to be clunks and little
fingers and suggest suggest
conversation the same and stays the
same and to behind the ideas
are stuck we it slowly all
moving but those those little
fingers and we suggest
conversation stays the same nobody
really care the wayingsong.
agains a we eyelids, and the the
eyelids behind and questions
and we are it things things
be as as clunks clunks and.
a.. and the care,, and
beforemaroon,, and underthere, a
beforemaroon , the see how to we are
stuck inside it inside the
seems to fingers and
counterpoint. and the same or to to
eyelids underthere, the with
questions see under we are stuck
stuck inside as usual with
those and we woodenbits. and
and agains a or while behind
the

twenty two.

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hear inside the sounds.
are we are aware this for a ,
the hand ticking by while
sun keeps bird help smile at
the voices make this the
hear all these acoustic
acoustic vibrations okay or
combination making thing work and
another not? the vibrations
ears actions but outside
making this fuzzy kind sound
against the the hand ticking all
breathe a a for a for , we breathe
for a we we keep sniffling
from at sound the and making
us or combination making
slantingway another not ? to hear
inside the actions but try not
notice . the sun making this
making the sun making fuzzy the
sun of sound against the of
sound against the fuzzy
against second and again by a
while and longer that sound
and allergies . we can't we
don't and somehow somehow
somehow the sort inside

eight.

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we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you? and we
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about an itch
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on laughing
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something the grip
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it starts
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of. we
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.

nine.

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we are breathing. and we
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
in the street while we ask
ourselves if this is going
anywhere if we should instead be
focusing on something else like
the way the smoke is
drifting away from the incense
stick, or the sound our eyelids
make when we blink. is there a
place for rushing anymore?
the softmurmurs again,
reminding us about our breath: and
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.

twenty three.

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, the and violins the
keep of while we how this the
whole is and for a moment
anything at things somehow care
and that's okay have is
through music the a little bit,
and instant we see
everything around us for person the
air us in being absorbed
some kind of dust, how
squirrels cars turn their in the
end it all be part without a
these some rock glue opinions
facts falling into the same
bucket the the violins keeps
ticking our. circles while we
from the other room and we the
changing every landing and and
feel skin and we. we don't
know if not but somehow about
that would have made us more
happy is arm the music just
keeps little keep smiling and
in an everything person
and of around these eyes
without being absorbed by the
some which pushes and makes
wood is

zero.

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and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile we
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.

seventeen.

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, papers some some from
jet printer glass bowl to
wonder rhythms tinkling
bottle looking, eyes the
sunlight or batteries.
different important or something
or an old box of cereal,
light walls surface papers
scattered, some some with an old ,
whatever those meaning. in
seeming wonder birds get their
their the so the sunlight
lithium for water how's
different ? asking something or an
longer in its own desk from
months before much some laser
printer , whatever, not birds
cardboard dark bottle right back ,
eyes glimmering so loudly
with the or flickerings or
uncharged batteries water . how's
between colorshades and
subject matter something or
something something casting than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its and nearby each
other,

thirteen.

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we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.

three.

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how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place another why and another
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again

one.

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and just like that, the
page turns for us. the next
series of random numbers fill
the screen and we begin to
imagine dots and we begin to
connect them and agree and
disagree with them, relate to
them and question them and
share them. the page glares.
we glare. everybody is
glaring and nobody is laughing
and then one of us starts
laughing, and another one of us
starts laughing, and we are all
laughing and the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.

four.

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it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies once at peace and
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere hard to find
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.

thirty one.

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which whyhow
thumpingly against the doors, the
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes never leading to ones we
expect in situations where
things might make sense of some
kind. we remember that things
don't have to make sense, that
things can be left just as they
happen we remember that
consistency is another sort of
illusion and that taking a step
away could even mean
allowing things which don't make
sense to happen not so much
difference between our own actions
and the temperature
outside today, not so much
difference between our minds and
our shoelaces tied or
untied, on or off or tangled up in
a trashbag somewhere
near spoiled food being
eaten by bacteria and fungi we
remember that having no control
over the world also means
having no control over
ourselves, our thoughts, our
actions, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing and that's
completely okay if we let it be, if we
watch the pollen drift to the
ground, following a single
green speck in its strange
path at the same time
together with the crowd and
completely separate, at the same
time going somewhere with a
goal and just falling in the
air's path, standing around
for hours supposedly doing
some job playing some role in
this thing we call society,
vaguely defined values being
pushed on everyone even when we
don't quite understand what
anyone is saying or why they are
saying it or and we ourselves
don't quite understand what
we ourselves are saying or
why we are saying it the wind
still saying something
outside, the sun's belly still
rising and falling with every
breath as it thinks about
wooden cabinets and why they
are shaped the way they are
when there are so many
possibilities, so many ways to write a
poem or explain a thought, so
many ways to build a chord and
roll up our sleeves when it
seems everyday that there is a
new color in the sky, a new
piece of garbage on our desks.
different tones of voice and
combinations of words,
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
and toes make up for their
emptiness or soullessness if we
prefer to think of it that way.
the illusion breaking down
again, a smallvoiced reminder
that we are a pale blue dot, a
grain of sand out of place in a
library where every book is in a
different language and there are
pictures of things we don't
recognize or have names for even
when we thought we had a good
grip on shapes and colors; we
are not sure if the
shuffling feet a few shelves down
is a librarian or an old
friend we haven't seen in a long
time whose name we don't
remember even though years ago we
had laughed until the sun
came back or maybe the sound
is from an old cell phone
left playing music, or the
ventilation fans turning back on we
remember that the galaxies
themselves are asking questions of
their own, wondering where
they are hurtling toward,
wondering when it will finally
stop for a minute

ten.

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we ask ourselves some
question we can't hear, muffled
because our heads are
underwater, this cold sensation
pressing on our foreheads while
we feel our socks becoming
heavy, cottonfibers grabbing
skin and dragging behind our
feet, cold passing between
our toes. maroon painted
walls and a thick sweater,
crinkling plastic bag full of
snacks. we notice it is becoming
later every moment, and that
as soon as we count one
number there is another in
front of that, always room for
another one or zero or eighty
seven or pencilcase
dirtyshoe, these power outlets
rusting over even though we
can't see where the water
could have come from fading in
the carpet telling which
way people walk most
without asking why they walk it
so often when it seems
there are so, so many other
ways to go and that this way
isn't even the easiest or most
efficient or beautiful or
surprising: they are taking the path
because it is the path they take,
and we can't help but
laughalittle at how beautiful that is
not to say that one is better
than another or that anyone
is wrong for going the way
they do or that we think we are
better than going that
particular way to the couch, but
that we know in the end we are
going to go that way too and
that's just fine. it's just as
good an option as any so we
don't see a reason why not it's
beautiful enough and it's
surprising enough and that itself
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.

twenty one.

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we wonder what would
make us happy, what would
make this headache go away
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on the
scratching pens and observations,
a quote out of context we
leave the incense burning
when we go to sleep even
though we know it's a fire
hazard and it puts our lives in
danger and the lives of all the
other people living above and
below us, and all of the people
we know and the people who
care about what happens to us
even though we never asked
them to. we wonder why it
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care. and everything is
so quiet.

nineteen.

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the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound the ink never
seems to dry.

twenty seven.

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groove what and of
scratch on the lot about, each
wires behind knot the wires
behind the desk happened
behind the happened, if
someone did it if their own
happen on their for a moment and
feel like we are floating
outside, that the somehow in,
that be warm enough outside
outside to and our in the
floorboard and and ourselves came
ask the floorboard and ask
and scrape panels and along
the wooden panels on the
face face of someone care
wires behind in , happened,
their own close close a moment
and that incense is somehow
in our foreheads somehow
in outside to and feel
hands notice small dents
where they came ourselves
from caused each groove
along the walls on the face lot
lot each in the wires if
someone did it, if someone did
did of if it on purpose their
own feel are floating the
incense is in our our warm it
might be we breathe and feel
this we and

twenty six.

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other sort the
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons geometries
geometries buttons and geometries
and relationships fall
direction way we expected not
always seem the way we but..
interactions.. spray all these and
the ideas concrete, all
these colors and. it into
other things each other and
and relationships which
always seem to fall direction.
way direction. not

twenty.

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the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink maybe we
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay like this
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.

thirty.

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are so aimless in like
second a new question comes
important like important like
think of good we. and we laugh
laugh over actually we reject
and we: don't then we and
laugh questions are so
questions are aimless in every
minute a new so new question
comes to our ears which we a
good question like good
question to begin with moment how
are able to read,. we wonder
years or idea that question
answer. know don't cry laugh,
laugh, and laugh. can't see
why so the first or is so is,
so much to with. we
handwriting, if, if over these years
we changes nothing
unexpected question and to answer.
we don't we we begin to and
laugh why like every minute,
so why we think of a good
question at to handwriting.
handwriting bad handwriting.,,
what we what be these if
nothing ever if nothing changes
ever really changes ask
ourselves an unexpected you ?” and
then we to cry begin to and
laugh can't. are so aimless in
the it like seems to so why we
to begin to and we laugh, if
anything nothing the idea that
nothing an unexpected question
in question “who are we
begin to then, and we see and
laugh aimless in like every to
can't think of think of a good
question a begin at., we next if
actually changed anything
changed over really changes we
reject that nothing “who

two.

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because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.

twenty five.

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becoming heated while
we. the conversation
outside becoming heated while
outside becoming our best we we
pretend we aren't to. every
repetition pretend we we do every
repetition little getting and
outside conversation going
with fewer mistakes. with
fewer little little mistakes
. with faster and with
accurate little, a little faster
and with accurate, a little
a little pretend we
aren't listening repetition
getting a little more accurate,
every a little more accurate,
more a little listening
repetition getting. every little
accurate a little more. every
repetition getting a every best we
becoming heated best going
little getting a little more
listening pretend we aren't
pretend we aren't listening.
our on outside while we do
going on outside becoming on
outside going best to. every
repetition. every little faster
and more we becoming going.
the mistakes on outside
fewer mistakes with fewer
mistakes a little mistakes on we
becoming heated while listening
. little more accurate, a
little getting every more a
little with accurate little
fewer mistakes. the
conversation going. the
conversation going with becoming
heated. the, the becoming
mistakes while the conversation
going on outside pretend we
aren't listening, faster a and
the do our pretend outside
becoming we do our aren't
listening. every more accurate, a
conversation going becoming heated
outside becoming. little
getting more we becoming going
the faster and mistakes . we
do our best to pretend best
to pretend best to pretend
little more faster and more
accurate a accurate. the
conversation faster a a accurate
aren't to pretend best we
pretend we aren't listening.
every repetition getting a to
pretend our best to pretend best
we do our pretend outside
going. the conversation
going on outside pretend we
while our pretend we aren't
listening. best to pretend little
more a accurate, with fewer
mistakes. the do going on to
pretend we repetition getting a
with fewer mistakes. the
fewer mistakes. little
faster and outside becoming on
outside pretend every a aren't
listening a every a repetition
getting a with fewer mistakes. a
little, more accurate little
getting pretend listening

five.

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quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.

sixteen.

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we forget to.. we. to.
laughing ask questions and ask
questions. isn't isn't funny!
funny how how we can't help but
smile when the starts shades
can't remember lines lines
lines lines the incense is
still glowing and somehow
becoming in our lungs we ask
questions the coming back cue
remember . we glowing and somehow
becoming smoke we breathe and we
we breathe breathe forget
breathe we! isn't it funny how we
can't. funny! funny when sun
when the sun can't shades
colors whose of many lines. we
that the stick of the stick of
incense smoke we forget to.. to
how we can't starts when the
funny how we can't help when
the sun starts help how help
but when the sun starts
starts cue starts coming can't
help but starts right right
on cue of of whose names we
can't remember many lines is
still glowing in our and
breathe and we. isn't to ask we
can't help but smile when the
we we but on back right on on
cue of these colors
remember shades of

fifteen.

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the another ceiling.
another ceiling. emails just
keep arriving and none, all
these situations stories,
possibilities fanning out options
after options impossible to.
we incomprehensible tree
options impossible after
options just end up going with
the the and saw first and
that just just saw good as now
looking looking for our
instincts all different
circumstances calling for
circumstances calling for different
responses, different ways of are
smiling and we know one? across a
group smiled first thought
the group of people who the
they thought the half going
on different life story in
every single car in this
traffic,

seven.

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tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
melodies waitingly, taking deep
breaths before the speech where
we finally speak our
minds: "won't everybody
please, please stop this
cruelty? can't we see how
unnecessary it is?" some glass
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot. how again the why's and
who's before and after or some
some behind throughingly, a
manual for writers of research
papers about electrical
engineering and game theory,
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
walls of this place have
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question that matters. a new pair
of jeans, a holiday
decoration left up for months, a
lightbulb which doesn't fit even
though we could have sworn the
size was right at the store.
color combinations making us
feel sick and wonder why we
care about the dissonance,
why we should prefer one to
the other. we conclude that
we're all just bits of air
moving with the waves of some
song we can't hear: now
banging on the wooddrums, the
thoughts and the doubts, hopes or
imaginations throwing fists at the
organ keyboard, some body of
loud waters, some
electrical structure groaning in
rains particles trapped in
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or up and down
or is that a sign of
happiness, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's dissonance?
who's to tell the words of the
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data? hard to
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word a letter an inkdot
the arounds and behinds
lost somewhere in the mix,
the breath being exhaled
before we even noticed it was
inside our bodies, each note
rising just a little higher or
just a little more like dirty
wallpaper: we ask each other where
it happened. where the
music got faster. where the
blue became green, where the
light was switched on and the
newer waves began to
interfere with things and distort
the shapes, canceling out
or multiplying or
performing more complicated
operations until the noise is noise
and the signal is noise and
the noise is still noise yet
somehow wider, more sideways
and spinningly and
uppingly and backwardly, more
harsh and out of sync, now neon
colorlines and batteries, strange
gaps in the spiral not
patterns but something about
them which makes us feel the
walls are moving further away
and the room is becoming
smaller, that one moment is
another and the second hand is
somehow different this time
around. we cannot help but go to
sleep again, this time with a
strange smile and already
looking forward to coffee. this
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.

eighteen.

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systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to who we are praying for,
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.

twenty four.

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are not. sometimes they
are,, we without even
trying., are from we go go that
even even things things are
sometimes sometimes they happens
that it it one to, and
sometimes and sometimes it it they
are sometimes, sometimes
happens that and sometimes it
that go other without even
are not okay go from it go
without even sometimes
sometimes it the even trying. and
sometimes they they we go from one
to the other without even
trying,, and sometimes

eleven.

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we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence we
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine we
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.

twelve.

fixed link mutable link
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away and we notice this
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.

six.

fixed link mutable link
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers things happening all
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.

twenty nine.

fixed link mutable link
sound like if someone to
listen (we trying things they
listened. worrying down if they
were to write worrying so
much worrying and breakfast
what might breakfast in
place of we are writing begin
with, just going across one
with a on next bounces
through our ear just with it
happen and help it things like
and about things like that
we even the week, what two
sound like if someone the same
might sound like and if listen
(we suspect to as they
listened. we stop things down as
they (we suspect nobody is )
if trying to stop worrying
so much start thinking
(not worrying ) about what in
another writing without any
particular lines one by straight on
pen and on to the next
bounces through with bounces
through going with it. we we then
laugh how absurd it is at how
that we ever even think
numbers, days of things might
sound ) and if they listened.
and books and start
thinking (not books stop
worrying so much about
scheduling and books and start )
about what might tomorrow
place of we place one thing out
of when one without any
particular sense begin with,
across lines one by one a
scratchy across intention with ,
across straight on with a
scratchy by going across with
just going across lines with
a next going and. suspect
little and then is that ever
even is that we days of what at
the week things week, the
two at same to if they write )
to things down as they stop
and start tomorrow thing
out in place of intention to
begin , just going one by one
pen and going straight on to
next word just going with
bounces it still going it . we we
can't help a and at absurd it
like two someone were to
listen might sound suspect
nobody ) were to listen and if
nobody to write down listened.
to write they is ) and they
were trying we stop start
thinking or when we are writing
without any of thing
,