are they unpredictable, is the wind unpredictable though we come to expect what it does & deliver, whether its purpose is to blow wispy hair or to pass seeds or to make tink the sounds directly overhead. and like the various beauty of flowers, do sounds too compete for beauty to attract a host? to attract the someone there to listen fully. Like flowers, just as the birds, is the wind wishing to be heard with its passing through chimes overhead arythmically but consistent in its deliverance? cars to are made use of by the wind, just as the bumblebees continue to mate & buzz. and a truth is here, one that sets on a foundation of current feeling: my taps at this time are outclassed to the sounds by chimes & birds & cars & mexican painters stepping on concrete , rolling rs & getting jobs done. To remove the competition. I’ve said more than once #2 is preferred. It is the practice to do the best, as if #1 was the goal, like a thin mask worn to hide the wish to lose, to perhaps achieve victory long after the truth of illusion has come out. just below wood is now being cut. It’s the loudest thing now. I feel lost to its harshness. Stanley is repelled & he has left me out here to finish 108 words alone with distant birds & muted chimes cut out by planes overhead & wood losing its form again. I’ve begun music. It’s the happiest rolling forward kind of music I know at this time. I am hopping its train to find my way again, here outside, among so the competition. a first conscious breath. brows unforrow. sun dissipates into appreciative grass. dew reflects. metal tinks. & the sound evolves. the chimes have stopped, their purpose now one in greater question, they perhaps #2, just like me, a human doing its best to be more than the simple intention of making noise through taps or sex or beeps, scribbles or sleeping readjustments or resettling of chair weight. the music has grown in seriousness. stanley has returned to my left. the woodmakers have gone. the wind is there in the trees but absent overhead in chimes. my thoughts or feelings may have become louder than all of it, they being fueled by this dramatic soundsoftly evoking a real silence & stillness in form. the air conditioner has shut off. Nothing remains, not the birds or the bees, or the chimes, just stillness & this music & the sounds of returning woodworkers, & the resuming of chimes, & the buzz & memory of music climaxing & fading into air conditioning.