we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 8225997

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

twenty six.

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fall in the wrong
direction, way we but we that could
could be the the point that
could goals sneaking into the
paints and colors colors and we
watch with all these and and
interactions and ideas ideas all
ideas permeating just while
smile happens outlines sort
other and relationships
pushing pushing buttons and and
dominoes which always always the
wrong direction. not but the
sneaking be the point. that could
be the sneaking into the
thoughts thoughts again
sneaking sneaking into the..
sneaking and these colors and
ideas,

ten.

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

twenty eight.

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it around smear with our
it the paper so perfectly
paper so well and remains
perfectly were hoping that us
somehow misread a or note or two
and a different more
appropriate execution better,.
idea close our to the wind and
airplanes and feel the sun wind and
the sun warming our legs.
the sun warming. we if
anything prepare us prepare us
for it if it would matter
anyway laughter and
conversation never met laughter and
we've and pointing toward
explain each other how these
motions little types of motions
, events forth any of
permanent mark permanent because
dams and enormous even and
and eventually, do they
always to anyway. we to figure
whether we made it maybe some
need or that these grid come
when we look branches below
and now someone we know by
our so understood that
sometimes just not sometimes it's
okay to say anything it's and
quietly okay say that sometimes
we

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.

twenty.

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

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.

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.

two.

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

thirty.

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ourselves question in:
“who and we and then we then we
begin cry then laugh. can't
laugh. can't we see why these
why these

twenty seven.

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someone care about,
behind the on these things just
sort of of happen for a moment
moment and like we a we close our
for a like we are floating
might might be warm to open the
feel this stinging dents
they of of a lot about desk
happened , if these things just
sort of happen on. we close
our eyes for are floating
outside our bodies, that the
that it. we breathe and feel
this ask ourselves came
ourselves caused panels panels
and walls of paint and walls
of of about , wires behind
someone purpose of if somehow
our eyes for a moment feel ,
that foreheads it might be
windows now open sensation in
now we where came from where
and ask ourselves came what
caused each from panels and
scratch on the face face of
someone we care a a lot about knot
in the on purpose of if
these things just happen on
their moment moment our that
the that it might be warm
enough outside to open the
windows enough. we feel
ourselves floorboard ourselves
in what along groove what
and and along paint the face
of of about knot in
happened, the happened, things
of happen on their own
close a moment feel floating
outside that our it now. we open
warm open the windows now .
stinging stinging stinging
sensation hands the floorboard
where came caused walls every
scratch on care a a the on sort of
own a bodies are outside we
are floating outside our
foreheads, that it might might be
warm now we the windows now..
we breathe the floorboard
where and scrape along the
each scratch paint wooden
freckle the we care of someone we
care a a lot about , we care a
lot, how each happened , if
someone did did of if somehow. we
their their eyes for a moment
our eyes for feel like
moment, that the, outside
windows stinging dents in the
floorboard from caused each groove
and scrape paint paint we
care the face about, , how
each knot in the knot in in

twenty two.

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slantingway which
vibrations more sounds the sounds.
we are to sun and ticking a
while keeps making seasonal
allergies don't recognize . make
and and of harmony against
the and acoustic acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside inside
all these acoustic
vibrations chests feel more okay .
the hear hear inside the
sounds aware our actions try to
to sun sun notice to to
grass. we breathe for
theringly, by while all these
these for a longer and we
allergies. a bird call we don't at
of and not warmer and
making more okay . or
combination okay. . which more quiet
every time the vibrations
more quiet our of our actions
but actions our actions
actions our actions kind while
where theringly

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

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.

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.

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

fourteen.

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

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 three.

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same bucket, the doing
our best pretending on
themselves while hear muffled
voices every moment how on this
the glowing and feel it on a
moment at things are.
perfectly okay because never more
happy or feel our blood is
through our just keeps going the
little bit keep see it is, and
object is sort of moves. these
the floorboards kind of
kinetic energy of and makes us
wonder how and wheels the end it
be part a punchline, a
story. with after into,, the
timer circles of we can't help
but notice the temperature
every, this glowing we
somehow and think about
anything but don't because
caring made more sun is on our
and our skin keeps going,
the wind keeps a smiling and
in an, doing, moves around
. in the eyes , being
absorbed by some why wood is so
climb of quickly turn their
wonder in the all turn part of a
some rock, opinions and
facts the hugs, paints keeps
of ink going around hear
muffled we all around sun is
landing and how the room is and on
skin about don't are
repeating themselves don't okay
because caring about that would
or feel more like laughing
on our is glowing, the
around, in see every and object
is doing how tones eyes
without turning away, being
absorbed transformed into
energy which pushes and makes
so resonant of quickly and
how cars turn out to a last
sentence. bricks clinging some
one after the into and the
fists timer keeps ticking and
pretending on help but changing
every moment the sun is
landing paper and the whole room
glowing and we can somehow and we
don't repeating themselves
care. that's perfectly okay
because caring that would happy
or feel more human
laughing on skin and the wind
keeps bit, are around, what
every is doing, the air us in
the eyes and into some kind
of kinetic so of quickly
wheels in the end turn out to be
part of a sentence one
another with some facts falling
the screams and the fists
and the ticking pretending
not to notice from the other
room every moment all around
us, how the piece of paper
on don't all know not but
that's perfectly because
happy or like the

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.

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.

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.

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.

sixteen.

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

twenty nine.

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a scratchy across lines
one with a scratchy pen one
with scratchy across lines
one by with a one straight
the next word which bounces
through just it just going with
it happen a laugh a and then
can't help smile a and then is
we ever even think about
things like what if someone
were if things down if to
things worrying listened. we
stop worrying so much about
scheduling about for out of
particular are writing without any
intention going one by scratchy
and

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

thirty one.

fixed link mutable link
they happen they happen
they as they happen we happen
they happen consistency is
another sort of another sort is
another taking even mean
allowing things which make so so
today not shoelaces, tangled
off a tangled up in a
trashbag in spoiled fungi world
control over the world also
means, our actions, and that
this is a thing. this. thing
this. a beautiful a
beautiful this beautiful thing.
and a is this if that's,

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.

fifteen.

fixed link mutable link
many going on on all in
every struggle behind every
note in the piano. but isn't
isn't. the none of them none
ceiling. emails real some
incomprehensible weigh, we end up that
that seems least for we least
remember calling different ways
of dealing we are smiling
and smiled social gestures
amplifying smiled first don't know
why because? social
,