Thesis

I can see hundreds of conversations taking place right now. I’m out of all of them. I’m the ghost of things unsaid. the world is spinning and books are being read and analyzed and I’m alone in my bedroom plucking strings. Everyone knows they’re not supposed to ask me about Korea or my favorite author or why I always draw people with pointy fingers. Everyone knows I don’t have an answer. Documents filled with letters. 100101010100001 line after line after line. Print. Staple. Hand in. Silence. Back to my room—what do you think, ukulele? You sound like my heart.