x
we accidentally imagine
by andrew yoon
this is a book of mutable poetry. it exists along a
field of probability with an effectively endless number
of possible realizations. every time this page is opened,
a program generates an entirely new version of the book.
some elements change more often than others. the random
seed for the version you are looking at is 2065741.
because there is a seed number stored in this window's url,
refreshing this page or opening a link to this url
will render the exact same contents you see now.
if you would like to share or keep a link to this version of the book,
you can use this .
if you want to visit or share a random new version of the book,
use this one .
to link to an exact version of a particular poem,
hover over the poem's title area and click the link
which appears that says "fixed link". you will also
see one that says "mutable link" - this points to where
that particular mutable poem lands in a random new book.
try following the mutable links of a particular poem through
different versions and see how it transforms.
you can print or (if your computer has the ability) download a
print-ready pdf of this version of the book using your browser's
printing functionality. some elements of the display will change
to make it more suitable for printing. (you may want to modify your
printing settings to disable the automatic header/footer generation
most browsers do.) please note that as i make
improvements to the mechanics of the program, the content you see
here will likely change, even with a fixed seed - if you want a
truly fixed version, please use the printing method.
the code for this entire project is under the gpl3 license and is
completely free to read, use, and redistribute. the most up-to-date
code is available on github
here .
andrew is a composer, programmer, poet, and bad pianist. you can
find some of his other projects online at his personal website
here .
...
we accidentally imagine
by andrew yoon
seed 2065741
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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.
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.
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.
might be warm open
stinging dents ourselves where
the the floorboard from
groove and scrape wooden
panels panels and walls walls
of someone we care a lot the
each knot if these things
just sort happen on close our
eyes for a moment floating
outside our foreheads
foreheads , to open be warm enough
our this stinging
sensation breathe and stinging
and windows now open warm
outside. we breathe and windows
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.
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.
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.
piano . maybe if there
there was more time. but but
isn't. if there was but there
isn't the none of them be from
situations into some
incomprehensible into entire out into
into incomprehensible tree
options options impossible to
to end and that, for our
looking for go we don't remember
we good as any we go looking
we left left looking our
instincts but we left them all
these different ways of
dealing are are and different
and we because one of us
smiled first people who don't
know was funny hear didn't
even hear many many many in
this traffic jam jam, note
more isn't. the sky was isn't
. another ceiling.
emails just keep arriving to be
from into some. saw. we end.
we end up going with good as
any, least we go go looking
don't remember where we we
left different responses
and are smiling different
ways smiling. are smiling
and we because who when
didn't even they didn't even
they didn't didn't even
things different life all at at
, every single car in this
different different different
the. behind behind every in
this traffic jam , a
different struggle behind. but
seeming like just another
another
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.
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.
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.
thought colors; we are
not sure if a shelves down
don't back or maybe back on
turning fans we back on we
themselves are questions of own,
toward wondering which a
minute to never leading to
things remember that things
don't things sense, that
things be things can be left
just as remember that we
remember could step away don't
make don't make sense our own
actions and own actions ,
temperature difference between our
minds and our and our tied or
untied, on or on or or tangled or
off tangled up tangled up
near spoiled near spoiled
food remember that also
world control over our
actions
. damp once, it,,. the.
damp, it does. outside. a
slowmoving sound. we notice how
maybe notice is so pink we we
this for a while the sound. we
, we it a. for now for now we
maybe we remember why stay
like a while ?” and , like this
?” and damp sticks how
everything but pink maybe we, is we
notice how everything
remember why, but for a while “can
it once ?”,. a everything
is so pink maybe is so pink .
how so, don't stay like this
does damp sticks from
outside. sound we remember why ,
maybe we remember why, but we
we don't. for don't. “can
it stay like for stay and,
for once, the damp sticks a
notice slowmoving from
outside is so pink don't. “can it
for it stay like ?” it we
don't stay like this for a
while it while ?” and it stay
don't for it stay like this for
and , for it smell. we
remember everything pink . this
for a stay while ?” and once ,
it does. the sticks . how
everything is so pink maybe we
remember why, but for don't ?” and
for a while ?” and stay don't
. for a stay like this we
don't and for a while ?” for
once , it does damp sticks
from outside. a . everything
a slowmoving how
everything is so pink why, but for ?”
this for a don't remember but
we so pink remember why
everything a slowmoving maybe “can
it ?” and, for does. the
damp sticks from does. the
smell sticks from smell of
damp. of slowmoving we is
maybe we “can for ?” and it stay
like
every repetition
getting a little aren't to
heated outside becoming
heated on heated fewer
mistakes. little a to pretend we
aren't listening . aren't
listening pretend we aren't
heated fewer mistakes. little
faster and with accurate, a
little, faster and a accurate,
the conversation going on
outside becoming heated aren't
listening. every repetition
getting a little listening we
aren't getting a repetition
pretend we while we do heated
outside becoming our
repetition accurate little faster
and getting, listening
while the fewer the
conversation going on fewer mistakes
conversation going on outside
becoming on fewer mistakes with
little accurate little more
accurate, a conversation going
on outside becoming
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.
. we close our eyes just
to the feel the just we
wonder if prepare it, it it
sounds of all of all these
people we've laughter and they
learned about the place . going
back and forth without mark
and statues collapse
always were going to what going
to do anyway we try figure
out a out where the patterns
in of the patterns in up all
maybe could all up, whether we
made it all up or decided or
felt some come look at the
sitting place we don't look us up
so they looking away
sometimes we can. don't they and
doesn't, and if it's, and if it's
isn't our us . we our. strange
when wind moves it around
into different shapes.
smear the ink and lead with
hand but somehow it all our
hand somehow it all to the
paper so perfectly. that the
smudges think we wouldn't
otherwise maybe would be better
appropriate let our eyes it go. we and
let it go we sun warming.
anything really we if it would to
these people laughter people
these to the sounds all met
laughter and laughter and
conversation, pointing toward their
and conversation their
destination and conversation as
they explain to other
learned about place . so . all
these little motions of hats .
all different types hats.
all these permanent mark
because even roads collapse and
and things and fade things
they do anyway out in a cloud
if that a way that these
about things and of like
that how is at things things
happening someone were is if they
is ) and if they were trying
to write things down
scheduling and (not worrying )
about books and (not
breakfast tomorrow we might be for
breakfast tomorrow or why we cross
writing without with, lines one
to the with with it. we
suspect just somehow and then
laugh at how is that then laugh
at how absurd it is that and
the same listen were trying
to down as they listened we
stop and books (not worrying
) about what or why of
another when we to just going
with and going ear it just
things. it and still we suspect
that we but a little and we
can't smile a little and it
like numbers think about
things, what two at same things
happening at like if ) to so much
about scheduling and books
and start thinking (not
worrying ) about tomorrow we are
writing particular sense of
intention going across lines one
by one pen and going
straight on bounces
and just breathe for a
while again again and and the .
a bird call we we of people
laughing we buzzing more okay.
work and another another not
work and closer sounds we our
the the sun against the
grass. we pause and and . , the
second again again and angles
crackling all these crackling we
keep sniffling from help but
smile at help but smile at the
of people laughing
laughing sound make this against
make and we hear we hear
vibrations okay more okay thing
work and another? thing?
every time we our ears hear the
sounds we but notice . the sun
outside for a while . thisthat
thisthat theringly the second
hand , the and again while
crackling we breathe for for a a
sniffling from seasonal but smile
of voices of the make this
and this sort of harmony
against all our chests and
making us not warmer warmer and
work and another not one
thing work work another more
we are inside sounds hear
inside the . this fuzzy kind
sound against against the
just and pause we , by again
again and again while all
these angles these angles
crackling a while longer and and
the while longer and the sun
keeps and we keep sniffling
seasonal allergies . a bird from
seasonal and we keep sniffling
from seasonal allergies a
bird recognize. smile at
laughing and of people of people
people laughing and make this
our chests and making us
feel combination another
not ? the vibrations more
the inside the sounds . of
try not to the grass. the
second and again while all a a
while making that sound . a the
voices against the hear all
these acoustic vibrations
acoustic acoustic acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside our feel
not warmer which making one
thing work and another not?
the vibrations the ? the
sounds . we are aware of to
notice outside making the this
fuzzy kind fuzzy fuzzy kind of
of sound pause and just.
again while for a sniffling
from help smile at the voices
make harmony against all
these windchimes and these
all all acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside our feel
not warmer more more more
okay . . more
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.
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.
are not they are
sometimes it one without even they
are are, sometimes go from
to the other sometimes,
and sometimes go go from
without things and sometimes
they are , and sometimes it
that we go from one one even
trying . things , other to even.
and sometimes things
sometimes they happens that we go
from we we go one to the the
other trying .. sometimes
things are are okay, and are,
they are and are, sometimes
go things are not okay, are
, sometimes it happens
that go from even even trying
and trying and sometimes
they it happens that we go
from one to the other
sometimes they are sometimes they
are sometimes it happens
that we even trying. and
sometimes sometimes things and
okay go trying . . and
sometimes it happens the, and from
one to the other without
even even trying and
sometimes things are sometimes
they go from one not okay are
not sometimes are from one
the one okay and happens
that we go to the other
without sometimes things are
they and happens sometimes
it we go from one sometimes
sometimes we happens happens
happens other without
sometimes things , from one to the
other without okay , and, and
from one go from one to the
other without and sometimes
they are go from without even
things are not okay, and
sometimes are, without even
trying, are sometimes they
sometimes to the the, and
sometimes are happens that
without sometimes things are
not okay, and it happens
that go from other without
sometimes okay and sometimes it
happens happens. and are they
are, from the other trying
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.
we can't think of or able
laugh, be next actually
changed over these years over
might next, if anything we
changes you we answer know. and
then to answer. don't and
unable to answer. we. then we
laugh laugh,. can't why these
questions are aimless first in
first seems like is a when
place second a or second which
our ears which is so so much
think we moment we able to read
we laugh, be next, if
anything nothing ever and in
return are you. we and and then
we see why questions are
these see why these questions
are laugh can't we see why
are when every seems to
which more important why like
important much more to able to
handwriting, and, we, anything
actually changed really ever
changes we and we are we ?”
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
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.
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.
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.
of incense incense
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in forget to ask. we
questions ! isn't it the coming
back right coming but smile
when help how we can't help
isn't it funny but smile when
back right on these can't
remember and lines still somehow
lungs and we breathe. we
breathe and we smoke our lungs
lungs we breathe and breathe
breathe to ! isn't it funny how.
laughing ! isn't it ask questions
questions how we can't! isn't it
laughing! ! isn't it help but
smile when the funny can't but
when when how
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.
with some rock glue, one
after bucket, the screams and
the violins timer our to
around hear and we can't
temperature all around us the whole
room is and on our think about
don't know not don't care
perfectly about that made us the is
laughing and our blood is the
music wind keeps pushing
trees around a we keep smiling
and in instant everything
is what object is staring
us in the floorboards
kinetic bits of dust, how
squirrels trees of cars turn their
in the end to be part, last
clinging to one with rock glue one
after bucket the the fists the
, paints and timer keeps
our to ink around hear
muffled voices from help
temperature us, whole somehow feel
on our moment anything at
if things are repeating we
okay because caring about
made feel more human, on our
through just pushing trees, are
us what it just these,
floorboards pushes bits of and so
resonant, trees of quickly and
how wheels. we wonder if
spray paints and
concrete, all these colors and
ideas permeating while we
watch with a smile. it all just
happens outlines of squares and
trangles into other things,
shapes sort of making
themselves up behind each other the
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and dominoes
which always seem to fall in
the wrong direction. not
going the way we expected or
intended, but maybe that could be
the point. goals sneaking
into the thoughts again.
ideas and interactions.
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.