you park your car on the nearest sidewalk. pedestrians are on the road because the sidewalk is filled with cars. everyone moves on.
you park your car on the nearest sidewalk. there is no sidewalk. you are in the middle of a vast sunflower field. the road is gone. there is a stork.
you swear you’ve heard this folk song before. your buni insists it’s a different one.
you walk onto the metro with your things. you walk off the metro without your things.
you drive by multiple villages on your way to a city. there are little houses. this house has a stork nest on its roof. the next house has a nest too. the next one. the villages are inhabited by storks.
this construction site has been here for decades now. what are they building? it surely can’t be more blocuri.
an old lady sells you some plums at the market. you reach into your bag to pay, but its empty. you look back up to explain, but the lady has vanished
you must do the sign of the cross two times every time you pass a church. you’ve been doing the sign of the cross for hours now on your way to work/school. your arm is getting tired.
you’re meeting friends of your friends. you ask about their careers. they are in IT. you are in IT. everyone is in IT. why did you ask?
you’re in a roundabout. the car in front of you is heading your way. which direction was the roundabout again? nobody seems to know.
you’re done shitting. or whatever you were doing. you reach for the toilet paper, only to have that familiar pink sandpaper graze your fingers. you shed a single tear.
you can never outrun the stray dogs.
you have a slight headache. your eyes widen in fear. you shakily turn around. your window is open by a crack.
you managed to leave your homeland. “are you russian?”, a stranger asks.
your doctor declares you infertile. you cry, regretting never wearing papuci on your cold kitchen tiles.
“shouldn’t romanian gothic be like, dracula or something?”, someone asks. you hold your breath.
you walk into your friend’s home. they too have a picture of arsenie boca in their living room. arsenie listens in on your conversation. he always does.
You stick your head out the window and feel the breeze. Your hair flutters, then ripples, then violently judders as the wind suddenly accelerates, taking your car and your head in violently different directions.
“More, Nick, more,” the bus driver chants, as children in the back scream and bang on the suddenly barred windows. “More caaaaaaar, Nick,” he moans, as his arm pops loose from its socket.
“Oh, shit–” is the first thing you say when you see the driver of the car you’ve just rear-ended, and it is the last thing you hear when he gets large enough for everyone else to see him.
As you floor the pedal, you can see the sign saying “GARFIELD HEIGHTS” in the far-off distance, and the driver in the white suit and helmet much closer. You keep driving. You check the fuel gauge. Empty. You start rolling. He keeps driving.
The glimpse of the pale white lozenge in the air is enough for people outside to run for their apartments, but you are not so lucky: caught in its trajectory, you are launched towards the infinite geodesic surface of the dome. It’s so beautiful up here, you think, before you disappear.
- the car is moving, but the drivers don’t tell us where our destination is. do the drivers know where our destination is? how long have we been moving? have we ever stopped? how is the car not out of gas? how are we still alive if we haven’t gotten off at a rest stop in forever? how are we still alive if we haven’t stopped for food or drink or rest in forever?
- ‘pass the rosin,’ i say, gesturing for the red plastic bag. i take it, and fish a gumball-sized nugget from the bag. the rosin nugget is the purest rosin red, and has unsmooth edges reminiscent of rock sugar. i roll it around with my thumb and first finger, not saying a word. curiously enough, i have the urge to pop the nugget in my mouth and bite down into it. i look up from my nugget, where the band kids huddle in one corner and drink polish. two piccolos sound in the background - a minor second apart. what’s going on?
- it rayns. sometimes we think it’s raylly grayt, but the driver of our car turns around and tells the kids to stop it before they turn the car the other wray. stop what? we wraygh our options now that the rayn gets heavier and heavier, and we think a hurraycane is approaching. i dig around in my pocket for my wallet, and it seems to be empty. my dollar bills, once neatly arraynged in neat stacks, seems to have disappeared. stop being irraytating says ray, for it costs you all zero dollars to not make puns of my name.
- egg egg egg egg egg. are we philip glass? or are we egg? egg egg egg. have we been indoctrinated into an egg collective? egg egg egg. eggtude, conceggto, enscremble, orcheggstra. egg egg egg. egg. assimilation is imminent. resistance is futile. your life as it has been is over. from this time forward, you will service us. egg. egg egg. we are egg.
- we find ourselves scrambling all over the piano as it hurtles down the highway at breakneck speed. glissandos! now! but how’s that going to help us get out of a disasterous accident? we look down. how are we even hanging on, and not lying on the ground as a strip of roadkill. the car’s at home, and we hope someone hasn’t broken into our house and stolen it. we plan to play it later at the ensemble concert, but we’ve heard it’s been infested with rosin cronching zombies from outer space.