UNSEQUENTIAL

physical media is hard to come by these days, i don’t know how atoms work, but it feels the same—get the illusion? what do i own but existential

dread, how it all means nothing? and if particles shapeshift like a taped over VHS, so many times, i know it’ll fade to strange

states of matter. the loss of memory possession, and i tweak, mysteryseeking it out, hear the quality degrade as it unravels to static, to sound

unsequenced, to blankness. i let it all fade when all i do is push it away—i don’t think i’m trying hard enough for all this shouting

to hold meaning. i look for empty spaces, just

knowing they feel hollow, wanna figure it out. i’ll go find an answer when i want to.