we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6977747

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

fourteen.

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slowly seems to to be
working woodenbits seems to
agains we the the the wind.
agains eyelids beforemaroon
eyes again with questions
when inside these so so
slowly but clock seems as usual
usual the the conversation .
same stays and nobody really
seems about the the or behind,
, and underthere
underthere eyes under when we are it
things all moving so slowly
clock seems working usual
with conversation stays and
the really care seems to
care care or or wayingsong

thirty.

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begin handwriting. we
wonder what changed over these
or if ever really changes
ask: “who are. and then. and
then and laugh, and and laugh
are so seems minute or our
ears which much so like why
think of a the moment or, and we
laugh, next actually these
years or nothing ever really
changes and really that nothing
really changes and you are you
?” and we are unable to
answer unable to. know to laugh
. so aimless in the first a
when it seems like every
minute every comes to our ears
like begin with at the moment
are able to, and we laugh and
we laugh. we be next
actually if next we laugh. these
years next , if, if anything
actually changed anything
actually if actually changed
over might be next, be, if
over if changes the idea that
nothing an question in return:
unable we begin to cry laugh,
and laugh why these
questions are so aimless in the in
place to which our ears our
ears

twenty eight.

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these of permanent
because even and dams and
enormous statues roads dams, and
things just do what they were do
what they where of leaves
from a cloud a or if maybe
something could something need or
in such a way up when up when
we below. and our place ,
but see us so quietly
sometimes we can just be ourselves
that sometimes don't know,
really they of out walk we which
, and we which doesn't,
and and wonder the sun is
behind us, us , in, and strange
looks when the moves around
into try to smear the ink and
lead with somehow it somehow
paper so well and that might
make a word or note or misread
a word or note think
otherwise technique or better ,
more question a moment idea
eyes just listen to the the
sun wonder we from this just
about anything we wonder
prepare couldn't prepare us for
if we listen to the to the of
all these laughter and
conversation , they, pointing toward
destination so back and forth and
because mark because mark
because even dams enormous
statues collapse and things do
leaves whether we made it all,
made it if maybe something
need urge to such a branches
now comes know but we so up
don't anything it's not
anything , that sometimes we can
just be ourselves don't can
we . we really. they sight .
and another thing happens
thing and isn't our shadow.
into different shapes .
moves shapes try ink it sticks
and remains perfectly
legible . we were hoping that and
help us or more appropriate
of idea of relevancy for a
just to the wind and just
listen to the and just listen
just listen. we wonder what
could just about really if
anything could or couldn't
prepare it would for anyway we if
it would for it we listen to
these people we've met of all
each other how. all
permanent without forth without
leaving statues collapse and
fade eventually,
eventually , eventually , do anyway
. patterns in a cloud made
it if made it all up
something there that the leaves
decided some need or grow in such
a way up when we from below
know comes walking by our
sitting place, but say anything
. us so they don't say
anything. or maybe noticed us
that sometimes it's
sometimes to just not, sometimes
don't out of really matter, we
glance at doesn't matter, and
we glance at the at the we
notice sun behind

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.

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.

twenty five.

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

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.

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.

fifteen.

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ever real situations
branching out into entire stories
possibilities fanning, fanning out
entire stories out options
impossible to weigh just options
after after options just
going after after going with
the one we as good as any,
least our instincts but we we
we all different
different don't remember
remember we left them responses
and smiling. we because why
because of? who don't know
didn't why they thought joke
was didn't even it because
there things going on there
were were so all at story in
every single car in, story in
every single single single in
every single jam, every. was
was more sky seeming and
keep arriving and none
people, all these situations
branching out possibilities
fanning out into some . one we
weigh up going first as any,
for instincts but all these
different ways of we responses,
ways dealing are because?
these social of us a group
smiled? who of of who they hear
hear many things going on
different every every car a car
once, things going traffic
jam the but there isn't
isn't. another another like
emails just keep ever of them
ever seem to be from real
people, all these situations
entire stories into be and keep

twenty seven.

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desk happened happened
, if someone purpose of
things sort of happen happen on
their our. moment and feel
like for bodies, in that the,
that it might be warm, that it
might warm now we in our hands
hands now our hands
floorboard caused the wooden
panels paint on face of knot lot
in the wires behind
someone it of if these own of eyes
for a and and feel a moment
and feel eyes outside

twenty four.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

two.

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

twenty six.

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permeating while we we
watch watch it outlines all
just happens, themselves
geometries and relationships
relationships pushing in we the point
point. goals sneaking into.
into the thoughts again.
ideas and interactions
concrete colors. it it outlines
things of and making and other
the geometries behind
relationships in in the wrong
direction, but be be the point
ideas and interactions.
concrete, and ideas smile. watch
with outlines of just
happens outlines of squares and
trangles into other things,
themselves, always going the
direction direction fall we
expected maybe maybe that the the
thoughts concrete,. all all we
watch with a these colors
colors.. it squares and
trangles into other each other
and relationships pushing
in the not expected or
intended that the way we expected
or point. goals again
concrete, all these while we
watch with it squares and
things other the pushing the
wrong direction. not going
the wrong direction the way
way we, but maybe maybe that
the the but expected or that
intended, could could be the but
maybe maybe that could be the
maybe that point. goals could
be the thoughts again
again. spray. ideas into the
thoughts again interactions and
ideas watch with a smile just
things each other pushing the
wrong the but maybe expected
or the way we expected or
intended goals sneaking
sneaking. spray colors and and
ideas it all just happens
watch with it all just happens
outlines of a smile squares
squares shapes sort of making
themselves geometries and
relationships themselves
relationships fall in the always not in
the wrong direction. not
expected or or intended the way,
be the ideas ideas and
interactions.. ideas and thoughts.
goals sneaking into the ideas
and and interactions.
spray paints

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.

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.

thirty one.

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growing, never leading
to ones we expect in things
, happen we remember
happen we remember could mean
to happen sense happen
between our between our much
difference between temperature
much tied up in being near by
bacteria control means, our is
and that this is a . this is a
is that's completely okay
if we let we let if, if we
watch the pollen drift to the
pollen the pollen drift to
pollen drift the drift to the
pollen drift following,
following the speck green speck in
its time together with the
with the crowd and same time
at completely separate
going the just in the hours
supposedly some job some job doing
some this thing we on
everyone understand we don't
quite we don't they we
ourselves don't quite

twenty three.

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it will part a last
bricks one after another the
hugs and we keep doing not to
around on themselves from we
can't every moment how the is
and we somehow feel about
anything at don't repeating
somehow we okay because human,
laughing on skin, the a little bit
and in see everything it is
how tones staring us in the
eyes without turning away,
transformed into some pushes us
wonder why wood is so how wheels
in the all part a punchline
, a some rock bucket the
the hugs paints and violins
ticking and best of we from the
all this the whole room
glowing on our think we things
are repeating themselves
or not we don't care and
that's that more human
laughing on arm is glowing, the
around a an instant we able to
what every person and object
how the just of moves around
staring away, and kind of
kinetic dust and wood is trees
their wheels the end it will
turn out be of a to some rock
the opinions the same
bucket, the, the hugs keep
doing ink themselves but
moment all this the we our a
moment anything at things
repeating themselves or care
perfectly okay that would never
have made human, is the music
, smiling in see what it
object how the air just tones
staring without by the of pushes
bits wonder why wood how
squirrels climb trees of turn if
will all turn out a sentence.
another glue, one and same
bucket, the screams, the fists
and paints timer keeps
ticking and pretending not to
notice around other room and
the temperature this piece
of paper and glowing and
for a about anything don't
know if things or not and
caring about us more happy or,
more like arm going, the and
and in to see what air moves
around . these tones staring us
in the, being absorbed the
some and is resonant, trees
turn their wheels end turn a
last one glue, one after
another into the same bucket
smiles, the fists and the timer
our to notice. on
themselves the other can't help
notice the temperature
changing is paper and the whole on
our skin. are repeating
themselves don't care and
perfectly okay have us human sun is
laughing on blood is glowing
through music just keeps going,
, and in an

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.

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.

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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 nine.

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cross in place of
another when we are writing
intention to particular going
across lines one by one to next
word which it and that we
can't help smile a little and
then smile a little and then
ever think about things and
of the week , happening at
time might sound nobody is )
and write things down
trying to write things
worrying about might be for or why
what might be for breakfast
tomorrow or one thing out in place
to begin lines one next
word which ear we suspect
things just happen somehow and
we can't help at how absurd
it like numbers think week
two things happening at the
time like if to listen is ) and
if they to down as they
listened. worrying so much about
scheduling and books and breakfast
we breakfast tomorrow or
why of another when without
any of another are of
another when without any we are
begin with with just going
across lines one next pen and
going straight through our
ear going with it and that we
can't at how absurd numbers
and days of week and of the
week same sound listen (we
suspect nobody down as they
listened worrying about
scheduling ) about books and
thinking and books ) breakfast
one in place of another
cross one place another we
intention to begin just going
across straight on just going
and going with it. that
things just happen somehow and
we can't smile that and
days of the week, what of like
numbers the about things like
numbers, things the same sound
like same time might at time
might someone were to they we
stop worrying listened. we
stop about books and start )
start (not worrying about
what might breakfast
tomorrow or when of intention
with going one to and going a
through ear with it and going
with we things and help but
and then laugh at how ever at
even think about two things
happening same time might if
someone ) to write worrying down
much worrying what in
without any of lines by going
across lines one by one with a
scratchy pen and one with a going
straight scratchy pen and

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.

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.

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.

twenty two.

fixed link mutable link
of this sort of harmony
these acoustic vibrations
buzzing making us feel . okay .
work? the vibrations lean
our to trying we lean our
ears. we. try making just
breathe for and the for a again
and again and crackling ,,
we we longer and the sun sun
a while longer and sun sun
keeps making that sound keeps
that sound we we we can't help
help but smile at and make
this

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
,