Transcription of Rain (Music of Changes)

If I live, the chance of death is approx. 100%. The jacksaw clanked when it hit the ground after he cut his
finger off sawing a 4×6 into two 4x3s. The rain this evening will be extremely loud. Drops will drop
from the sky like bombs. Gone gone gone far away is the sleeping man’s dream from reality, here you
see him envisioning himself as a postal worker. Grandmother calling. The flock of sheep yes like the
kind of sheep that have white wool that you can make pillows out of those kind of sheep all fell over at
once while baa-ing in the field and when I saw it happen boy I dropped my bucket and went and ran
screaming let me tell you. The myth of the prospector who danced when he saw his baby weeping was
a farce. Optical asphyxiation by cell phone screen pixels shining brightly in 476 PPI. I will have a
double serving of Okra lots of salt but on the side so that I can put it on top of my food in tiny
pinches. If you say so, John F. Kennedy. The stick of butter-colored butter in the shape of a stick of
butter melted slowly but surely into a pool of melted butter on the undercooked toasted piece of toast,
so the right to sing was made illegal and people rioting with pitchforks and torches in the desolate gray
streets in response were calmed by promises of fancier water fountain spigots by the city council.
Circumambulation. The apple in the brown paper bag left on the lunch table intruded into by a
hungry worm was picked up by the Federal Bureau of Investigation Spec Ops unit and thrown into
the clear sky the color of a white piece of paper when looked at through a thin slice of Ethiopian Opal
where it was eviscerated by twenty .50 caliber bullets shot simultaneously by twenty monkish snipers
waiting from various overhead roof corners. Sawdust. Razor blade. Mirrors are broken. Ceramic
fragments shining on the evening floor. Spaceship. She lived in a duplex. Crystal coat. The journey of
man ends in an abrupt cough. Scratch scratch. Forty-seven. Rambunctious. Fiftyliner. Global do-
nothing. Raids on libraries end in world peace. The cockroach’s home is the dark cold trashcan lid. A
pond’s perimeter of shining lights from circa 1920s. What is lost I see. Eras nub. Sex. A blinding light.
Why. She dreamed all night of the Loch Ness. Hair, hair, hair. The fulcrum of the seesaw rode upon
by a toddler and another toddler creaking at approximately the megahertz frequency of the Om chant
breaks, the toddlers fall to the ground with blank shocked faces and the Om frequency turns not into
silence. The girl walking down the sidewalk saw a black cat with yellow eyes peeking out from under
the car and continued walking. Free is free. I put the spoon in my pocket. She wore an archive piece
from Junya Watanabe Spring/Summer 2006, ‘The Mad Capsule Markets,’ #34, a vest with a bunch of
purple cotton balls glued to it with Elmer’s glue, to the grocery store, picked up a bottle of DayQuil
(w/ liquid the color of DayQuil) w/ her left hand and NyQuil (w/ liquid the color of a Giraffe’s
tongue) w/ her left arm’s pit, her right hand opening the door as she leaves w/o paying.

Henry Romain was born in Wyoming, grew up in Iowa, and studies English with an emphasis in Creative Writing at USC. His favorite writers are David Foster Wallace and Herman Hesse. Outside of writing, his favorite hobbies are playing kendama, rock climbing, and just existing. You can follow Henry on Instagram here.