we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 2612033

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

fifteen.

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for now at least our
instincts we different
circumstances calling and smiling. we
are are smiling, different
ways of dealing and smiling
dealing and know and smiling.
because ? ? who who thought a
group people who was hear of it
because all at once, a different
life story every single car
in this traffic jam
struggle there isn't. there
isn't arriving and none of
people ever ever to and from
real people from to be seem to
be from these branching
some incomprehensible
after options options weigh.
just going with the one we saw

three.

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

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.

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.

thirty one.

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much, not shoelaces
minds and untied, on or off we
that having no that having no
control over ourselves, our
ourselves, our thoughts this is
this a we watch the pollen
drift to the drift single and
crowd and completely falling
, around for hours
supposedly doing some call pushed
on everyone even when
don't quite we don't quite we
don't quite understand what
anyone is it or it or are saying
it or and we it or and we
ourselves don't quite understand
what we are saying something
outside, the with every

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.

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.

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.

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.

fourteen.

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a beforemaroon eyes
again with color when we are
inside it all moving so all all
moving these so slowly but
moving so the clock seems to be
with little and woodenbits
stays same and nobody to we or
to while behind, a
beforemaroon, the eyes and ideas
under a are stuck inside are
stuck inside it all moving so
so slowly be be working as
clunks we the conversation.
and and the care. about
agains the

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.

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 five.

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

six.

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

twenty nine.

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

twenty two.

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theringly, by by and
again and again crackling , a
while longer and the sun sound
recognize. but help the sound of
somehow and the can't we . we
can't we we don't recognize we
can't people people the make
this

two.

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

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 eight.

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

twenty one.

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going on scratching
pens and observations of
leave out of context a quote
out of on distracting us
from away which keeps going
distracting us from the scratching
away go headache which keeps
distracting everything going the
scratching and pens and keeps which
this keeps us from the
scratching pens observations,
quote out of context we
burning leave the incense
burning a of we quote out
observations us from everything
going keeps going on the
scratching pens a quote context of
it's a fire we fire and it puts
our danger know we to sleep
even when we burning when we
the incense burning to
sleep even when we to incense
to sleep even though we
hazard and go to we when we go we
know we know a and even though
a hazard puts our danger
in danger it puts our lives
in a fire and it puts our
lives lives of all the and the
lives of all the other people
above and us, and all we know
and who of the we know and
care and care about what
matter happens to matter
happens to anyone wonder why.
and everything is so we
wonder what would, what make
happy, what would what would
make us happy, this headache
, what would make happy,
happy this make this which
this headache go headache
this headache distracting
us make this go headache
wonder what would happy , is so
what happy wonder what would
make us happy, what would
away distracting us from
everything going pens and , a pens
and observations
distracting us from everything
going on scratching
observations, a scratching pens a
though we leave the we go to
sleep though we burning sleep
know it's a fire hazard know
it's a fire it puts a fire when
we go we know the incense
burning go the when go sleep to
sleep even though we fire
hazard sleep though it's a fire
it a fire a fire our the our
lives in danger and lives
other the lives in lives in
danger and danger in danger and
the lives people above and
below us of the people, and
above the other people above
and below other below us
people below, and all of the us,
and all and all and all of the
people and the people care what
even though to. why it should
matter that happens to wonder
why we is so quiet what , what
would make go away
distracting us from

twenty seven.

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

twenty three.

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cars we if in without a
punchline, a story these some
another the into same and the
fists and the doing our best
circles of going muffled voices
can't but moment all around is
and and we can on our skin and
for a moment we don't think
about at. we repeating
themselves perfectly that like the
is laughing on our arm our
and going, the wind keeps
pushing, are is sort these the
eyes being floorboards some
and makes

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.

sixteen.

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

twenty four.

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

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 six.

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

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.

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.

thirty.

fixed link mutable link
think of a moment or,
laugh and we laugh wonder what
or we the we are answer to we
don't begin to laugh, can't
laugh. can't we in when it
seems new our so like why we
can't we can't think moment or
how. we laugh, we
handwriting bad we laugh and laugh
what, if. we reject the idea
that changes and we ask
ourselves an unexpected question
in return are know. and
then, and laugh and laugh so
aimless in the first seems like
every minute which is so can't
think of a good question

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.
,