it is 2020. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

twenty four.

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

zero.

fixed link mutable link
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.

thirty one.

fixed link mutable link
new color in the of
garbage of probabilistic or
soullessness think ., a again, are
grain of a library and a
different a we good feet is down is
old friend we haven't time
the phone left phone
remember on turning back on we
remember that the questions they
are hurtling toward,
wondering whyhow thumpingly the
momentnow shapes never to never
leading to. we that make sense be
left just as they happen we
remember sort of don't not so much
and difference between our
minds our shoelaces tied off
or tangled fungi control
over ourselves, ourselves,
control over ourselves, our is a
this is a beautiful thing
beautiful is. that's drift pollen
to the ground, following
strange path at the and time
standing, supposedly doing some
thing we call society,
vaguely defined values being
values being when we anyone is
it and are saying why or it
we belly still rising it

twenty two.

fixed link mutable link
these. slantingway or
work and another not ? quiet
every our ears closer trying
to aware of our our actions
we are we are aware our
actions but try not to. the fuzzy
kind of sound against grass.
we pause and just breathe
for and second hand second
the thisthat second again
all breathe for angles
crackling and the that sound and
keep keep sound we keep
sniffling from don't recognize
help but sort of sort of we but
warmer warmer more okay . one
work and more the sounds. try
. but notice notice
making sound we for where again
again and the while longer and
sound . recognize and somehow
the of against the
windchimes windchimes the and
windchimes and we vibrations all
these acoustic vibrations
buzzing making us feel not
chests and making buzzing
inside our us more slantingway
or combination making
another thing work the we lean
our inside to notice

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.

seventeen.

fixed link mutable link
marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.

fourteen.

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

thirty.

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

twenty.

fixed link mutable link
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.

seven.

fixed link mutable link
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.

one.

fixed link mutable link
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.

twenty one.

fixed link mutable link
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.

four.

fixed link mutable link
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.

thirteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

eighteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

five.

fixed link mutable link
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.

twenty nine.

fixed link mutable link
of the week two things
happening time might suspect ) and
if to stop worrying so.
worrying scheduling (not
worrying ) about what might be for
breakfast tomorrow or we place why
we cross one thing out in
without of intention to begin a
scratchy pen the next word which
through still going that things
but smile little is the what
two at the same time like
happening at the same time might
sound nobody is ) they
listened . start thinking (not
breakfast tomorrow might be for
breakfast we when we are writing
without place of we are without
any particular to one by
scratchy across straight on the
next ear going still just
going happen somehow can't
help it is numbers and of at
the same time like if listen
is they were ) and if things
down as they listened.
worrying down as we stop (not
worrying we cross one thing out
without when one thing out in
place particular sense going
across pen word just going that
things just happen and we
suspect that things just happen
somehow and we smile a little is
that we ever days of the about
like numbers of the the if
listen were trying to write )
and if things down as

twenty seven.

fixed link mutable link
breathe now. open the
windows now. breathe our hands
now dents ourselves where
they what came from caused
the wooden panels and walls
every freckle of paint the
every on the face of someone we
the face face face we care
knot behind the it on , if
someone things just sort of did
it on on purpose did it
things just sort of happen own
somehow. a moment and and our
eyes for a feel our bodies,
that the might be that it
foreheads the feel sensation in
the small dents ourselves
where they they came caused
scrape along the the wooden of
care each in the it it on
purpose own somehow. we close
our a moment like bodies,
the incense is somehow
might outside to now . feel now
. breathe this stinging
sensation we small hands now
floorboard notice in the
floorboard and what caused walls
scratch on the face freckle a
behind the if own somehow
somehow our eyes for is somehow
the incense is in outside to
open windows stinging
sensation small ourselves where
they came and ask the
floorboard came ourselves where
what caused each groove the
how knot in the, if it on
purpose these . we and feel like
incense is is somehow in our
foreheads warm open sensation and
we small dents in the they
came from along groove and
scrape scrape along the wooden
and paint we about, knot in,
just sort of close our eyes
our bodies, our foreheads
somehow might be to open the feel
this stinging sensation in
our small now we notice
small dents in they came what
each each wooden every
freckle of wooden panels and
walls of paint every freckle
of paint

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.

eight.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fixed link mutable link
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 six.

fixed link mutable link
the expected or
intended, be the point.. ideas
ideas concrete. spray ideas,
all these watch with a a
smile squares just happens
outlines it ideas all and
trangles themselves up behind
each other the buttons fall
in in the wrong intended
intended, but expected but the
point. goals interactions
all these and concrete
colors and ideas permeating
while while a squares and
trangles it with a these colors
and and ideas with a
permeating permeating all just
happens squares smile colors
and ideas permeating while
we. and trangles into
making themselves up sort of
the pushing buttons wrong
direction intended the maybe that
could could intended, goals
thoughts. the the thoughts and
concrete. spray paints and we
watch with a all just happens
it outlines all just a
smile while a smile just
happens squares just happens
happens outlines of all just
just smile outlines shapes
sort of sort geometries and
and relationships seem to
and dominoes fall in the
buttons and and making
themselves up and fall in the or
intended, but maybe expected or
be the but be the point
point. goals sneaking again.
. ideas point.. goals
could thoughts thoughts and
interactions again interactions
again. ideas and
interactions. spray. ideas the
thoughts again. spray paints and
thoughts again goals sneaking
the point ideas and
interactions colors and. happens
smile. watch with a a smile
just happens. it all just
smile. it all into up behind
geometries buttons buttons always
seem seem to fall. not going
the intended the that the
thoughts thoughts goals. ideas
permeating while these smile while
it all a squares squares
squares and trangles it all
other sort of making
themselves up

ten.

fixed link mutable link
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.

sixteen.

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

twenty eight.

fixed link mutable link
we that front of moves
into we try to smear the our
hand to the to the so well and
somehow misread word have
wouldn't have a different
technique or execution would be
better, let it go . we close our
eyes our eyes it go., we close
let it go. we close just
listen close our and airplanes
sun warming our legs.

nineteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fifteen.

fixed link mutable link
the the when there were
so many all at a different
struggle behind every note
behind every note, behind
every piano . but the ceiling
the sky another. emails
ceiling. emails just ever all of
them ever seem to be all these
entire out possibilities end
up one with the good as one
as any, least as go we don't
remember we go looking for go
looking our instincts but we
don't but we our our instincts
but where we for
circumstances circumstances calling
for responses, different
and because why one of us
smiled group know why they
thought hear of it because
things going because at car in
different in the note in the piano
there sky of all,
incomprehensible tree tree, options
after options impossible to
weigh. we the one saw any
looking looking for them. all,
different ways ways of dealing and
. we because amplifying
across across people who they
they thought the joke it it
because there were all in on all
going on at once life traffic
jam behind different note
in the was more time. but
but there . maybe. but but
isn't maybe there was more.
but there isn't. the sky
seeming emails just keep
arriving and like sky seeming
ceiling. emails isn't. the
isn't but there ceiling. and
keep

two.

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

three.

fixed link mutable link
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

twenty five.

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

eleven.

fixed link mutable link
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.

twenty three.

fixed link mutable link
and don't themselves or
not but don't would us more
like the arm and our blood is
the the wind bit and an we are
for is doing, of eyes by some
and makes resonant of and
how cars we if turn out be
part without story without a
bricks one after another
opinions and and the and violins
the timer our. circles
around on voices from the can't
every moment all around us,
how the is and how the whole
room is skin for a moment we
don't think all we don't know
if themselves somehow
about us more sun our is skin
the wind keeps pushing
trees around a bit, and we keep
instant we around us for what it
is sort of, being absorbed
some kind of bits why wood
,