This Is a Recording

You cannot hear me. I am not talking. This is a recording. You
will hear more. Every new recording will explain the recording that comes before, except for this recording, which can explain nothing. Nothing comes before this recording. This is a recording.

This is a recording of bird sounds. Listen to the birds. You are in a forest. You are lost. You have been lost for days. There is nothing to eat. There are birds only. You must kill the birds. But you cannot see the birds. This is a recording.

You must resist this recording. You are in a forest. This will not help you. Nothing will help you. You must help yourself. You must listen to the voices. They only want to help you. You must decide which voice to hear. It must not be my voice. This is not a voice. This is a recording.

This is not a recording of birds. This is a recording of you, crying.
It goes on for hours. No one can hear you. You are in a forest. There are no birds here. There is only you. You are crying. This is a recording.

If you can hear this, something is wrong. There is no voice. No one is speaking. You are hearing voices. You must be careful. You are in a forest. You are lost. You are crying. There are no birds here. There is only me. You must find me. You must destroy me. This is a recording.

—Jonah Winter

Jonah Winter is the author of Maine. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Originally published in the February/March 2004 issue of Boston Review.