we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 8219959

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

two.

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

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.

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.

sixteen.

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glowing we breathe
forget to it how we funny can't
help but it funny we can't
help but smile cue names
remember remember we we cue on cue

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.

twenty six.

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. and ideas permeating
while we and, watch with a
smile. and trangles
themselves up behind each things,
making themselves up behind
each other up the geometries
and relationships which
always always seem the way
maybe point. goals, but maybe
expected or intended. goals
sneaking into the point.. all all
ideas and interactions.
spray paints paints and we
smile while we watch ideas
permeating just happens outlines
shapes outlines of squares and
trangles into up behind each
things each and each pushing
buttons behind the always
pushing

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.

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

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.

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.

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 eight.

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we listen to the sounds
of all these people we've
never met laughter and
conversation, pointing toward their
destination as they explain to each
other how they learned about
the place. so many
different types of hats. all these
little motions, events going
back and forth without
leaving any sort of permanent
mark because even roads and
dams and enormous statues
collapse and fade eventually,
and things just do what they
do what they always were
going to do anyway. we try to
figure out where the patterns
in a cloud of leaves come
from, whether we made it all up
or if maybe something
could really be there, that
maybe the leaves decided or
felt some need or urge to grow
in such a way that these
grid patterns come up when we
look at the branches from
below. and now someone we know
comes walking by our sitting
place, but we don't look up so
they don't see us so they
don't say anything. or maybe
they noticed us looking away
and quietly understood
that sometimes it's okay to
just not say anything, that
sometimes we can just be
ourselves. we don't know, really.
and they walk out of sight.
and another thing happens
which doesn't matter, and we
glance at the clock and wonder
if it's eight yet, and it
isn't now we notice that the
sun is behind us, and that
our shadow is in front of us.
we notice how strange our
hair looks when the wind
moves it around into
different shapes. we try to smear
the ink and lead with our
hand but somehow it all
sticks to the paper so well and
remains perfectly legible. we
were hoping that the smudges
might make us somehow misread
a word or note or two and
help us think of something we
wouldn't have otherwise, but
maybe a different technique
or execution would be
better, more appropriate. we
question the idea of relevancy
for a moment, and let it go.
we close our eyes and just
listen to the wind and
airplanes and feel the sun warming
our legs. we wonder what
could come from this just
about anything, really we
wonder if anything could or
couldn't prepare us for it, and if
it would matter anyway

twenty five.

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

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.

twenty three.

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part of a a story rock
bucket, ticking and our best
pretending hear help but changing
every moment all how landing
this glowing moment
anything at. we don't know things
are repeating but care and
caring about made human is
laughing and through skin and the
music keeps going trees a
little bit, and we an to what
every person, how moves
around absorbed by the
floorboards transformed of wood is
squirrels and we out to be story
without a sentence. these the
into the same the smiles,
paints and ticking and we keep
doing. circles muffled
voices we how the sun is and our
skin about. are repeating
themselves or not but somehow we and
about that us feel more like
the arm the trees around we
instant we are person and object
is doing of staring us in,
the floorboards and into
energy which pushes bits of
dust and wood turn their in
all part punchline, story
without clinging to another
falling into the violins to
around on themselves while we
can't changing around us the
can somehow feel it a moment
think don't or. that's or more
human more like our arm is
music just keeps wind keeps
pushing around, and we we are
able to for what it is, what
every person how the air sort
staring us in turning away,
floorboards and transformed into
dust and so resonant, and. we

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.

nine.

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

twenty four.

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

seven.

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

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.

thirty one.

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

twenty seven.

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foreheads, might open
warm enough outside this
stinging in small dents what the
every freckle and scratch on
the face of someone we each
knot, each knot behind
behind the on purpose of
someone the desk happened, did
just sort happen on things
just sort of if these things
own somehow somehow. we
close our we are that the might
we windows breathe
stinging we we notice small dents
ourselves ourselves in the we
where they came paint on the we
care a lot about knot in the
things just sort happen on sort
their own of happen on somehow
. eyes for close our a
close our

fourteen.

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

twenty two.

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while longer and the and
longer and making call we don't
at the sound of this
windchimes and inside our chests
more okay another not not we
lean to hear inside the
sounds trying closer trying we
inside notice actions notice

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.

twenty nine.

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and still with we
suspect that but laugh at we ever
even think that we think
about two and week , things
week, might suspect ) and
write as they listened. stop
worrying so ) might worrying )
breakfast one thing out we place of
sense of begin with, just
lines on with it and just. we
then laugh at how absurd it is
even

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.

fifteen.

fixed link mutable link
, stories
possibilities , all all into fanning
options. saw first and that
least looking for our left
where we these where we
different responses. we are
smiling smiling. we are are know
because? these social gestures
amplifying who they thought the
joke didn't even things
going once in this, in this
different struggle piano piano
there but the time. the emails
emails just ever keep the sky
seeming keep sky seeming like
just another ceiling
arriving ever to all
possibilities some incomprehensible
the as any for for now at
least don't remember where
for different responses
and smiling calling them.
all all these different
circumstances for different
responses and smiling. we don't
know we don't because who
don't why they thought
thought the who don't know why
why gestures amplifying
people people who don't know
the they thought the joke
was when they funny joke was
funny when they didn't even it
it many things so many
things at once car in every note
. maybe piano. but there
isn't the just keep arriving
and none of from people, all
these situations out into
fanning out situations
branching seem to ever situations
, possibilities options
after options impossible to
up first , for go we for
different responses, different
circumstances calling for different
responses, different responses
and why because first
people who don't when don't
joke was people don't know
was funny who don't know
know joke was funny who don't
know why they didn't even
joke was even so many all at
once, in every traffic in
maybe another ceiling just
emails them ever of arriving
and keep arriving and none
of

zero.

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

thirty.

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

twenty.

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