<samson's "hypothetical"> 2003-12-17.12:41 p.m. Hypothetical John K. Samson Say you wake up one morning without a language. Taken away. Stolen by a monster from a childhood fever for some small slight. You didn't eat your peas. You find a pen, begin to draw a day of watching shadows wander towards the door, of smelling the garbage and touching the furniture, pressing your face to the radiator, walking with eyes open, eyes closed, living without naming. Unnamed. Say you wake up one morning without time. That stoner's lament, "Dude, it's just a construct" You didn't anticipate that there would be nothing to say. No "Busy," and a sympathetic sigh to reply to the "How are you�s that line everyday with possibility. Crowds of helpless mutes stand beside their wrecked cars at intersections, traffic lights pulse black. Say you wake up one morning without a body. You miss your hands like a dead friend. You play their favourite songs, mourn all their potential, what they held. Make a Missing poster for your heart with a description and a photo and your phone number. Find your ribcage full of topsoil in a garden down the street. Transplanted yellow flowers peeking out. Say you wake up one morning without the world. The world leaves you for another, never returns your calls, passes you on the street like a stranger. All you can do is eat potato chips, cry, drink warm vodka from a jam jar, and watch t.v. The National Geographic specials are especially cruel. Secrets of the Amazon. Plains of the Serengeti. And tearing up topographical maps doesn't make you feel better. Say you wake up one morning, or be honest, afternoon, without your constant fear for what you have. The season is a verb, and a window is open. The telephone rings to the traffic and birds. The clock is broken, blinking, you stretch beneath a single white sheet, and the world looks like it's about to say something, but then just shrugs. back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad