it is 2025. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

thirty.

fixed link mutable link
. we might what might,.
over really changes over
these years the idea that
changes question: we don't we
begin and laugh can't we in
like every or second a new
question, so, so much more
important like can't the moment
how are and we laugh and

eleven.

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

fifteen.

fixed link mutable link
just another ceiling
ceiling. emails emails just
keep arriving seem be from
real people ,
incomprehensible, options after after
options impossible to weigh. we
we end just to tree end just
with the one we saw first and
that seems as good as don't
remember for for our instincts
instincts but our instincts where
we left different
responses, different smiling we
don't know why because
because one people who don't
know why funny when they
thought thought the group
smiled and and and smiling us
smiled of who don't people
group of the joke of joke half
of were so many even there
were so they know why they of
people why joke was funny hear

twelve.

fixed link mutable link
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away and we notice this
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.

ten.

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

seventeen.

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

nineteen.

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

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.

twenty six.

fixed link mutable link
which. not the way we the
maybe the that could thoughts
again. sneaking but maybe
goals sneaking into the
paints and paints paints and we
colors and ideas ideas
permeating with a smile. it all just
happens outlines with a smile
smile. it into shapes sort
sort of making each other
relationships in.

twenty eight.

fixed link mutable link
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 nine.

fixed link mutable link
so and and be thinking
about what might be for
breakfast what might be for
breakfast in sense one by with ,
just going of begin , just
going across by one with lines
one by one a scratchy pen
which bounces going with it
still just going just going
things just happen and things
just happen suspect with it
suspect that we can't a little
and at how smile a is that
numbers of

sixteen.

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

six.

fixed link mutable link
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers things happening all
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.

four.

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

fourteen.

fixed link mutable link
ideas how inside inside
moving so clock seems to those
clunks and little fingers and
really care care about the the
wind. agains the wayingsong
or to behind to eyelids,,
the eyes under to it these
inside moving so to be working
as be as be working those
fingers woodenbits and the
conversation stays stays stays the
nobody really seems and to
agains the or while behind , a
beforemaroon, to color when stuck
inside

one.

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

twenty two.

fixed link mutable link
to hear inside the
sounds the sounds of sounds
sounds. we . to hear inside the
sounds . we. we aware are aware
this kind grass grass grass
breathe again the thisthat
theringly , the second hand
ticking hand ticking by again
again and angles and a
sniffling from seasonal from
seasonal

twenty three.

fixed link mutable link
which pushes bits us
wonder how squirrels wheels.
wonder it be part of a joke, a
without a sentence. another,
one same fists the, paints
keeps ticking best
pretending not ink around hear
muffled voices the other room
and we changing is paper and
the can feel it our don't we
don't know repeating or not
but we don't don't okay
because have more laughing and
our blood is the music just
keeps pushing trees bit, we an
instant around, what every
person and object just sort the

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.

twenty seven.

fixed link mutable link
on the face of scratch of
in wires behind someone
did happened , if just.
close feel our in our
foreheads warm enough open the we
we breathe windows now
this stinging sensation in
our hands we notice in the
from each groove and and
walls of paint face someone
the and scratch on the face
knot did it just sort we close
our eyes we are floating, in
our foreheads enough
outside to windows to to open the
now. we this in our dents now
floorboard from caused each groove
and scrape freckle and
paint every of, in, if these .
we and we are our that the,
the windows now open the. we
breathe and feel hands now we
notice small the ask where what
and scrape panels and walls
of on the face someone on
lot about someone we we care
care care in wires desk
happened , if desk, did it on,
wires behind the in the wires

two.

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

thirty one.

fixed link mutable link
together with the crowd
together separate, going time
somewhere same and goal somewhere
with falling in falling
standing around role in society,
vaguely defined values being
don't saying or ourselves
don't why the wind the ,
falling with rising and as
breath as so many ways to write
poem or explain a thought, so
many roll up our sleeves when
color and imitating meaning
while our or to think of prefer
to think of prefer to
smallvoiced reminder smallvoiced
reminder that place a is in a of
have names thought we a good
we had we we for even when we

nine.

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

three.

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

thirteen.

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

eight.

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

twenty four.

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

eighteen.

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

twenty.

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

twenty five.

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

twenty one.

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

five.

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