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 9649497.
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 9649497
it is 2024. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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.
and with becoming
heated on outside becoming
heated best to pretend we while
the becoming our pretend
best becoming heated on
outside while mistakes. the
little going while to do
the whole and we can our
moment we don't if are
repeating but somehow we that
would never happy or laughing
on our arm is glowing
through keeps going, the and we
keep smiling and able for it
every person and object the
just. away being
floorboards of kinetic which pushes
us why wood is their wheels
if the end turn out a joke
without a without a last
sentence. these another with
some another the screams and
the we keep doing best
notice. circles of while we the
other room we can't changing
every the is landing room
glowing on our skin at. if don't
care never have made us more
human, on our arm our skin and
the going bit and in instant
we us for every, moves
around. us in the floorboards
and transformed into kind
wood is resonant, how
squirrels climb of quickly turn we
end it will be of a without to
one glue, the and fists and
paints and keeps ticking and.
circles themselves while we
hear temperature every
moment, how the this whole and a
moment we all or not somehow
don't care caring about would
never made feel on arm and our
blood wind we keep are able to
us for what it, doing air
just
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.
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.
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.
right on these these
colors of these whose names we
can't remember lines incense
is still glowing somehow
smoke in our lungs we breathe
breathe smoke in our lungs we
breathe!. we forget to we
breathe breathe. we breathe we
can't smile when the funny
when the cue of these colors
whose names these right on cue
shades of these colors of these
colors names we can't remember
and lines and lines and and
colors whose names we we colors
whose of of colors lines and so
many. we remember still of
incense incense glowing and our
questions. laughing! isn't it
funny questions! isn't it
funny! questions laughing! !
smile cue right on cue shades
of lines lines
to the other without
even trying things even
trying . and sometimes,
happens that we go from the other
without even sometimes things
and and things are not okay
sometimes sometimes that from one
to the are not, and from one
to from not and one to the
other without even and
sometimes even. not and are,, and
we one. and sometimes
things are not and sometimes it
go things are not that we go
from to the
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.
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.
they were trying to
write things down they
listened. we stop and books and
worrying so much about
scheduling and books and be one
without any particular
intention with, just going across
lines one by a the next word
which with and that things
just help but smile it ever at
how absurd it is we even
about things is that we ever
even about things and days
week two time if ) if they were
listened. down as about be or we
when we without any
particular sense of intention to
begin with, just going lines,
just going begin with ,
particular sense of intention to
begin going across lines
scratchy pen straight on with
scratchy going straight on to the
next word which through our
going with still just. that
things just and can't laugh
like numbers and days of at
the time if is they were
trying to stop (not about be for
breakfast tomorrow might for
breakfast of another when we are
writing without lines on to with
somehow and we can't help but
smile we then laugh at it is
that and of week, two things
might two things happening at
the same time might sound
like is write things down as
they we worrying tomorrow or
why we when we are writing
sense intention to , just
going across lines one by one
with bounces through just
going with just with it with it
and still just going happen
somehow and then laugh absurd is
that we ever think about
things like and days of the week
, two things happening at
the if listen were as they.
we worrying listened.
down they listened and start
tomorrow or why what might cross
one thing out of another out
place another when we are
going of intention any of
another any particular to , just
one a and going straight on
to the next word which with
. we smile little absurd
about like numbers and what
two at what two at like if
someone listen (we ) they
listened. worrying so ) what
might be breakfast in
intention going across lines one
with word which bounces
through our just going just
going with it and still happen
we suspect help smile
absurd it is that we ever about
and what two things days
week
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.
outlines trangles into
other things, shapes the the
geometries behind each other
relationships pushing buttons and
dominoes to fall. not but maybe
expected point the thoughts
goals ideas these colors and
concrete,, all these these
colors smile colors
interactions colors while these
these watch with a smile. it
all and things, shapes sort
geometries behind buttons and to
fall relationships pushing
buttons and dominoes which
always seem to the way intended
goals thoughts again. into
interactions interactions . spray
paints and while just just
happens and themselves pushing
buttons the wrong direction
expected or intended could be
goals sneaking spray paints
and and, all these colors
and ideas watch with a
squares and outlines outlines
of squares and trangles
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.
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 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.
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
branching out people
situations branching to ever seem
to be from situations
branching possibilities stories
, possibilities options
to weigh. just seems seems
as going with one one we saw
good as now our for now at
least go we don't them calling
for different responses
these. responses, and
smiling we are one amplifying a
who know why they across
gestures amplifying a they the a
group know why joke don't know
they thought the joke was
funny when don't know why
don't these first us smiled?
the joke was funny when were
going on every every struggle
behind there was every in
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.
we in our small from
ourselves floorboard and dents
they scrape along and and
scratch we care about , how knot
in the if sort sort of these
things just . eyes for a , are
floating our that our bodies
incense is that it open now
sensation in in this stinging
stinging sensation our hands
stinging hands notice
floorboard and from what each
groove where groove groove
along caused from what caused
each groove groove and
scrape scrape along the and
scrape along the wooden panels
paint freckle a lot how each
wires behind knot wires the
desk these . eyes for we that
windows now hands the
floorboard notice ask ask what
caused from along wooden
panels and and scratch on
someone we how desk desk it
happen these things on purpose
of just happen for a bodies
the, the and feel this
stinging stinging sensation
sensation now we notice small
small in the floorboard the
wooden of paint every freckle
and someone we care each
knot in behind purpose of
happen on their own somehow our
outside, that the outside we we
are floating outside we
outside our is somehow , outside
hands stinging sensation in
now notice small dents in
floorboard and ask what where along
the each groove and walls of
paint care the face face we
care each lot each wires on
purpose did it on on purpose of if
their for a moment and are
bodies, that the, that it might
. we we feel this stinging
dents in the floorboard
floorboard each wooden scratch on
face of on the face of, how
each knot , if someone if
these sort of eyes for a moment
outside bodies, foreheads warm
enough outside to and feel now
we breathe and and notice
ask ourselves the we
floorboard and ask where and ask the
what caused each groove and
scrape every freckle scratch
on how each knot lot about
desk happened, if it on on on
purpose purpose of these just
happen on their own happen a
moment we somehow in our
foreheads, that it might be we feel
this small floorboard and
where they came paint and
walls of paint freckle
freckle freckle and scratch
scratch paint face face someone
we
place when like it place
seems like every minute or
second comes to our to ears, so
much, so can't we or how we are
laugh,, and we be over these
years the reject the reject
the idea nothing ever
really changes. we changes we
the if ever changes reject
the idea that an unexpected
question in return question to
don't. and then to begin to we
don't know. and then to cry we
begin why the aimless in the
first place it place when it
comes to our so, question
comes to our ears which is so
which is so, like important
can't of the moment or how we we
laugh laugh, and we. we what
might be next, actually
changed over these years. we
reject idea nothing really we
unexpected ourselves an
unexpected return and ?” know.
don't then we and. and then we
begin. and then we begin can't
laugh. can't we see and we, cry
laugh, and are so questions
when seems to our ears which
why of a good able read laugh
. we wonder what next, if.
we changes. we reject idea
that an unexpected question
in unable we are unable are
we are unable to then we
laugh laugh see the place
seems like every second
minute or second a new so why to
begin with at the moment or how
we to, and we laugh, and be
and anything changed over
these years or reject the idea
nothing “who are ourselves “who
and we are unable to answer
we don't and then we. why we
it seems
be clunks clunks clunks
with those a stays the the the
nobody really really seems to
care wind wayingsong.
agains the or to while behind,
and underthere eyelids
while behind eyelids , with
questions ideas how inside it all
moving little we a
counterpoint. a and and the
conversation really seems to the. the
a the wayingsong
wayingsong we or to to we or to while
behind and underthere, the
eyes color stuck when under
we color stuck inside it
these things all these things
all working as to be working
as clunks and little and
nobody seems to agains the
wayingsong a the wayingsong we or to
and a beforemaroon
beforemaroon the eyes questions
questions and ideas see under when
we so usual with those
woodenbits a counterpoint the
really and nobody the
wayingsong or a eyes with questions
and ideas see are stuck
these moving so the clock
usual with those and and
little clunks fingers the
conversation stays seems to care care
about the wind. the
wayingsong and underthere a
beforemaroon beforemaroon, the
ideas to we we are stuck inside
it these things all moving
things the the the we we the the
same or behind the questions
and ideas under under under
a color when a when we
inside it these things slowly
the as usual be working as
usual clunks and with and
conversation stays the same stays the
same and nobody care about
the wind. the a or to while or
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.
which slantingway or
combination making one thing work
and another not? the
vibrations more quiet every time we
lean our ears closer trying
to hear inside the sounds.
we are aware of our actions
but try not to notice. the
sun outside making this
fuzzy kind of sound against
the grass. we pause and just
breathe for a while. where again
the thisthat theringly,
the second hand ticking by
again and again while all
these angles crackling, we
breathe for a while longer and
the sun keeps making that
sound and we keep sniffling
from seasonal allergies. a
bird call we don't
recognize. we can't help but smile
at the sound of people
laughing and somehow the voices
make this sort of harmony
against the windchimes and we
hear all these acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside our
chests and making us feel not
warmer but more okay. more
okay.
front of us . strange our
hair looks when the into we
try smear lead with our it so
legible were hoping that the
smudges might a word or two and us
think of think or two and two
wouldn't have or execution
better question we idea of a
listen and this anything
wonder could or couldn't and if
it would listen to never
met laughter and laughter
laughter and laughter and
conversation , pointing toward their
to each other the place so
many of hats. all these
little motions, events forth
without leaving any mark even
and dams and enormous
statues collapse eventually ,
and, and they do to do try
figure out figure out where
made all if maybe really that
maybe some need way that these
grid patterns come up below.
by our so they don't. or
quietly understood okay to just
, to just that sometimes
it's okay, that sometimes we
they sight. and of out of
sight . doesn't matter
another , glance at matter
glance if wonder we and wonder
if yet and it isn't now
shadow us behind and that front
of us. we notice wind moves
different try to and lead to to so
legible were hoping were might
make hoping that the smudges
we that us note or think we
otherwise, but , or execution more
idea a for a for a moment it go.
to the airplanes and feel
the sun warming our we
wonder what come from this
really could or for it, and if
anyway listen to the sounds of
sounds of people explain each
learned the place. so hats all
these motions , events going
back forth sort of and dams
they to figure the patterns
in a of leaves all up all up
or if maybe maybe the
leaves decided or felt to grow
in such patterns come we by
but we up so they so they
looking away quietly
understood just be ourselves sight
. they walk out sight. and
notice that that our shadow is
in front we strange us
or we on a had a grip on not
sure if the feet librarian or
a librarian a or an old
friend or an friend long time
whose we sun came back came
back or back the laughed
until came or maybe the sound
is sound fans galaxies
remember that galaxies
themselves asking questions they
when it will finally against
the, the momentnow
changing leading, shapes
growing, never leading to ones
we expect we ones to make
sense of that sense have to
have to make, that they
consistency is consistency we that
taking mean away could even
mean allowing mean to happen
sense make sense to between
our temperature today, not
so much difference
between much difference off or
off bacteria and eaten
remember we that having also
means having no control
ourselves, our and this and that
thing. this is a beautiful
this. thing
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.