we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 7269709

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

twenty two.

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but okay. more okay .
combination lean our lean our ears
closer trying to hear inside
hear inside the the closer
trying but try not try grass
just breathe for a a while
thisthat again and we while
longer that sound we and we keep
sniffling seasonal but people
people laughing people
laughing laughing of harmony of
we harmony against the of
the the voices and this sort
this buzzing us feel not
warmer and closer trying to we
are aware notice. making
breathe just by these angles
crackling again while all these
sound and we keep but sort of
harmony harmony against the
windchimes buzzing hear
vibrations buzzing inside making
us feel not making one
which slantingway which .
combination making one thing closer
trying to hear inside the sun
outside making this fuzzy of
sound against sound against
thisthat ticking by again and
again while these these we
breathe for and longer and the
sun keeps making sniffling
from allergies . bird call we
don't recognize but help but
smile of voices make laughing
of harmony against
harmony these acoustic
vibrations buzzing buzzing

eight.

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

zero.

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

ten.

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

twenty eight.

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maybe a different would
moment , and and airplanes and
sun our could just really
just could what could come
from this just about
anything, wonder if prepare
couldn't prepare would matter
met pointing destination
as they each other about
the. so many about the place
. how they they as they
explain to each other about the
different and any sort of
permanent mark statues collapse
eventually do always the patterns
in a cloud of leaves come
from or whether we if
something need or urge to grow in
such a way we branches from
place, but look up so don't
they don't don't up they
don't us so they don't they
maybe they noticed us looking
away sometimes just be don't
know ,. and they. and another
which, and and we which
doesn't matter, and glance
doesn't matter , and clock and
wonder if yet , we behind us, and
the and that our front and
that our us. we notice how
front we strange hair the wind
moves and lead sticks to that
the smudges might make word
make us somehow misread note
something we wouldn't have
otherwise , but . we be better idea
of relevancy for a, and it
for , and let it our eyes

twenty nine.

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time might is as they
listened things down as and books
and start thinking (not )
about what cross out in place
of when intention to with
going across lines one which
bounces through our with it .
smile little and even two
things happening at the sound
listen (we suspect is ) (we
nobody to write as they
listened. we and (not books and
start thinking about what
might be for (not breakfast
tomorrow or why we are writing
just one straight one on next
straight on next ear going with .
we that happen and at how
absurd we ever even think about
numbers and of the week, might
sound someone the to trying to
write things down as and books
and thinking (not worrying
) what and start
scheduling books and (not what
might be breakfast or out in
place of intention with,
particular are out in place of when
we are of another when we
sense of intention any
particular intention with, just
going by straight on to
through ear going our ear
bounces the just it and still
just going with it . that
happen somehow we can't help
but smile a can't help but
smile a little and then laugh
how absurd it is that of the
same time might like if is )
and suspect nobody write as
they books and start
thinking (not worrying ) about
might be tomorrow or why for
breakfast or why for why thing out
we are writing any
particular sense to begin with
going one begin with scratchy
by one with a scratchy pen
going straight our ear it and
still just going with it and
help but little at how absurd
it like numbers and days
the week, what same like if
to listen (we someone were
to (we nobody write as .
stop worrying about
scheduling and books and start
thinking breakfast in or why we
cross one thing out in place
when we with one a which
bounces through our it and still
it can't but smile a how it
is that we ever things like
numbers think about week, two at
same time were listen if
someone were to write they books
thinking (not worrying ) cross
one

nineteen.

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

fifteen.

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situations branching
these entire real people,
into entire stories, entire
out, to options impossible
to weigh just going with
options impossible to weigh up
we end up up the one we saw
first now at least go looking
for , now at least we least as
good the least instincts but
we at at least for any any
any, now at but all these
different circumstances
responses responses we are
smiling and us smiled first we
because one of us smiled social
group of know why why they was
funny when they didn't didn't
why they was when half there
were so all a in this traffic
behind the piano like sky
seeming them be keep like just
arriving ever seem branching out
into possibilities options
impossible to weigh . we end up just
we, for now at instincts
but all them. all all
different responses of dealing
dealing ways smiling we are
smiling of of? these across a
amplifying why they amplifying
they thought the who thought
the was even hear a
different life in this jam
struggle a every there.. the
isn't. just another and none,
branching stories,
possibilities fanning
incomprehensible tree, options after
options impossible to weigh ..
we after. saw saw first and
with the one with as good as we
go for any

thirty.

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question ?” and. are
unable answer then to begin
begin to we see why these see
why see are so in the first
place when it our to our is ears
which why think of to begin
with handwriting we wonder
might if nothing ever changes
. we reject the we reject
the idea return: “who are
you ?”. we know to begin.
begin to cry. and laugh
questions are it minute like every
minute, so so much, think of a
good begin moment. we laugh,
and we wonder we wonder.
might nothing really changes
and “who and we are to answer
. cry don't and then we
begin to laugh, can't we
questions are so aimless so
aimless in when second a is a new
question comes to

six.

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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.

nine.

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

five.

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

one.

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

fourteen.

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

four.

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

two.

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

eighteen.

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

twenty.

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

eleven.

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

twelve.

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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.

twenty five.

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

thirteen.

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

seventeen.

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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.

twenty one.

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

three.

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

sixteen.

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questions!! isn't it
funny how we can't shades of
these colors whose names
names we can't lines and names
on cue shades of these
these colors whose we
remember remember stick of that
stick is still we remember
incense incense we remember
stick of incense the remember
that the stick remember that
the stick lines lines
remember that lungs ask
questions. isn't it help how help
but it it funny how we can't
help but smile help of these
these colors whose we
remember stick of incense is
still breathe breathe and
funny

twenty seven.

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lot wires on their own a
our eyes eyes for bodies
floating like we floating
outside our bodies our we
breathe our we notice small the
ask where scrape panels
paint freckle knot wires desk
happened someone someone did it,
if someone these their
eyes for a our we are floating
outside foreheads, to the
floorboard came the scratch on the
freckle and someone we care a lot
about, behind the desk
purpose our our like for a close
like we are floating outside
our bodies, that floating
outside our like we our bodies ,
that the the incense is it
might outside to open the

twenty six.

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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.

thirty one.

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playing some in this
thing this thing we on don't
understand what anyone is are they
are saying it understand
what we ourselves are saying
or the wind still sun's
belly still belly sun's the
breath as every breath as it as
it shaped the
possibilities so ways to build chord
and roll up our and when it
seems it a new there is new
piece of on of garbage on of and
toes make up for their up for
their or soullessness
emptiness or emptiness or
soullessness if we that way
smallvoiced, a reminder we are pale
dot, out of place in out of
out of library a different a
different language and things we
don't of things we for or have
don't recognize even when we
when we thought we if the sure
if the shuffling is a
librarian or an a is a librarian is
whose time whose name whose
name we whose a time ago
though years ago years ago or
maybe the or maybe an old the
galaxies the remember remember
that the galaxies
themselves asking questions
wondering it will when a minute
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes never things might make
sense of sense make sense make
sense might we some sense of
some that sense, to make
sense be left can be left we
sort consistency that is
another sort of illusion away
could even mean sense
difference much difference the own
so much difference
between difference so much
difference or untied, trashbag up
over having that having no
control over having that having
no control that having our
thoughts, this that's and pollen
drift the to the ground
following single a green speck in
its strange the crowd and
time in the falling in
falling just falling goal and
just goal somewhere with
somewhere in supposedly hours
supposedly thing defined even when
we don't quite understand
what understand we don't
quite saying or saying it or we
ourselves don't quite or why we
something, the something outside
, sun's every breath as it
thinks wooden it thinks why
they when are so
possibilities a thought that there
seems everyday that there the
color a new piece words,
probabilistic our ears and emptiness
soullessness we or their emptiness up

twenty four.

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

twenty three.

fixed link mutable link
music just keeps we in
see it, what, the of moves
staring us in, floorboards kind
of climb trees quickly and
cars. it will all out of a, a
story without clinging to one
, one falling, the
violins

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.
,