Enter dim gallery. Startled by digital sound. Digital sound. Digital sound. Digital sound. Cranked loud and overwhelming. Video game sound effects. Sped up into madness. Grab a beer. Feel like you are rattled. Be rattled. Feel like it is loud. It is loud. Like it. Move to the next room. Grass on one wall. Tall spikes of faux blades. Look down. A stack of paper. Old. Yellow. Memories of book reports decades ago. The chu chu chu chu sound of the printer. Move on. Look up. A print on the wall. White. With lists of words. Actions. Describing words. Sequences in the mind. Take it in. Move to the next room. Like a cell. Loud loud loud. Throbbing. Two men on a wall. Ugly men. Staring at each other. A file cabinet. A plastic drop cloth over a grinning banana. Awesome. Street but better. Marlborough cigarettes. Without the audacity of words. Digital sound. Digital sound. Digital sound. Richard Pryor. I am not a communist. I am not a communist. Is that what he’s saying? Over and over. Leave the room. Drift out. Like that the sound is less loud. Miss the sound. Scrutinize. Wonder. Piece. Together. Mismatched ideas. That fit like gloves. More lists. More words. Bachman covered in federal colors. Grinning and glaring. Ferocious. Scary. Look right. Go right. Stepping around stacks of film on the floor. Nodding to Carl Andre. A movie. Can’t watch it. Look up. Another wall. Hamburgers. Round red centers. I like hamburgers he said. Like landscapes I said. Not burgers at all. Not homogenized. Better than the same. Talking. Turn. Talking. Nodding. Glance up. Notice the devil behind the air vent. Grinning down. Chuckle together. Trickery. Vice. Sticking it to the man. Laughing. Digital sound. Digital sound. Digital sound. Like it. Like it. Like it. Leave.