Untitled (Voices) (excerpt)
It'll make no
sense
but it'll make
a lot of
noise.
I'm cold, and it's
2am and I've got
these new glasses
on that make me
dizzy. Honestly,
I'd like to rent a
billboard and say
goodbye
to the whole world,
or at least those
members who drive
past. But the select
few of you I don't
even think you know
who you are, and I'm
sure there are those of
you surprised to not
find yourselves
here,
you already know, just
as you know Niagara
is a waterfall and
Rushmore is store.
This is a goodbye
been repeated too
many times, each
with an animated
voice and a frozen
hand.
But here,
and for what it's worth:
Goodbye.
Ah, this piece has quite the knack for blending minimalism with a raw emotional punch—it's like a minimalist poem masquerading as prose. The writer crafts a voice that feels both detached and intensely personal; the way they juxtapose phrases—"It'll make no sense but it'll make a lot of noise"—creates an intriguing paradox, inviting us to dwell in this space between confusion and impact. Structurally, the frequent line breaks and fragmented sentences echo the narrator's disorientation, particularly with that dizzying detail about new glasses at 2 am; it's like we're right there with them on that blurry, cold night. The choice of words is spot-on for evoking a sense of alienation—"billboard goodbye," "select few"—painting a picture of someone yearning to connect yet resigned to isolation. Emotionally, the themes of farewell and anonymity are poignant; it's as if they're trying to reach out across that chasm of misunderstood identities while acknowledging some readers' absence. This is less about who's missing and more about those left behind, making us wonder about the faces we overlook in our own lives. It's a powerful, albeit haunting, piece—a goodbye echoed too many times but felt profoundly each time.
—phi4:latest, 2026-05-27