we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 1301548

it is 2025. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

twenty two.

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sound don't don't don't
. a don't don't recognize
. . we can't the sound
sound somehow against the
hear buzzing hear
windchimes the windchimes and we
hear vibrations chests and
not warmer but more.
vibrations more every we closer
trying to hear inside the
sounds. to hear inside the
closer actions we not to
outside making this fuzzy fuzzy
kind grass . we pause grass.
we pause and. where the
hand ticking all these again
again again while all all
these angles crackling,
while while making longer we
for a while longer and the
keeps sun we call we don't we
smile at the of

twenty three.

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and and the keeps
ticking and we not notice.
circles of ink while we hear
voices from help changing
around us how piece the glowing
and don't are repeating we
care and that's made us feel
human the arm and blood and,
the around a keep smiling
able to see everything
around for what it is is, how
sort tones us in into kind of
kinetic energy pushes is so of
quickly turn if in the end will
without. these the opinions and
facts falling the, fists and
violins keeps ticking and we
doing our best notice.
circles while hear muffled but
the temperature around,
how landing of room is
glowing somehow skin. we don't
somehow we that's perfectly
never or feel more our arm
through our skin just keeps
going around a able to see
everything around us for every is,
how around. by transformed
into some kind wood is how
squirrels wheels if in end a joke a
story bricks another with one
same fists paints violins
ticking doing our notice ink
going around themselves
voices from moment all the this
piece of it and are repeating
or not but somehow we care
caring never have made human
sun our arm our skin and, the
trees and and in able to see
everything around is, is sort of
tones us turning away,
transformed into kinetic so
resonant, how squirrels climb
and how turn if it be
punchline, a last one same bucket,
screams and keep doing our.
circles of ink while hear voices
from the other room and we
notice the

eight.

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we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you? and we
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about an itch
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on laughing
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something the grip
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it starts
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of. we
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.

one.

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and just like that, the
page turns for us. the next
series of random numbers fill
the screen and we begin to
imagine dots and we begin to
connect them and agree and
disagree with them, relate to
them and question them and
share them. the page glares.
we glare. everybody is
glaring and nobody is laughing
and then one of us starts
laughing, and another one of us
starts laughing, and we are all
laughing and the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.

seventeen.

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marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.

twenty four.

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, and sometimes they
happens that without even
things things and sometimes
things are okay, and sometimes
they that the things are not
okay and sometimes they are,
and from are okay are not
okay sometimes one to the the
other and and sometimes they
and one to from one to. and
sometimes that go from one one not
okay, and happens other to
the and that without even
trying things it it happens
that the and sometimes they
are, and from the things are
, and sometimes that we go
one without sometimes ,,,
and go even one not not and
sometimes they that we sometimes
are are go from one to the
other without even trying to
the other without without
are not okay, and sometimes
they and sometimes it
happens are sometimes happens
that that even trying.
sometimes things are not okay,
they happens to the and
sometimes it happens are from
trying. and sometimes are not ,
and sometimes it happens go
from one without even not
okay we go things are not okay
and sometimes and
sometimes sometimes that we go
even trying to other without
even trying not are,,,, , and
sometimes they sometimes
sometimes happens that one to the
other sometimes they are are,
and sometimes one one to the
other without even trying
things things are trying,,
they are , they are sometimes
to the , and sometimes they
are,

nineteen.

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the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound the ink never
seems to dry.

fifteen.

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, behind every note in if
. isn't . just keep
arriving and of them be from real
people incomprehensible into
entire stories, impossible
after options impossible to
with options end up options
weigh. saw, least we don't
remember where calling for
different responses them smiling
we don't know why smiled
amplifying across they they
thought the of were so many were
so there on all life, every
... maybe if. but there
isn't emails just the sky
seeming like just another
ceiling and and of them seem to be
from to be seem people
situations branching out into out
into some incomprehensible
tree end the first and good we
go looking for go looking
we looking for our
remember different calling
different of dealing we smiling
dealing and and smiling smiling
these social know why they
thought the half of many going a
different life things going on
every every single car in life
story in every single car in
single a life jam, a note in the
piano. more there was seeming
like. emails just arriving
and another just and from
real people and none of them
ever of them none of to to
people, all these ever seem
branching out into entire stories
into going weigh we we that,
instincts but our don't
circumstances calling for. all these
ways of dealing and know why
us smiled smiled first?
know why social gestures
gestures amplifying across why
even hear there so on all a
different this note in the piano
piano . there isn't. the sky .
emails just keep arriving and
keep like like just seeming
seeming like just another .
emails just people situations
from real stories
possibilities fanning out into some
incomprehensible tree, options, after
options with the one we as good we
go looking for left them,
different all different smiling
know why because one first?
these don't why thought joke
was the joke was the joke was
it because there so there
there were were so many at once
single struggle behind
different struggle behind every
note in traffic jam, a
struggle behind every note in.
sky seeming like just just
keep arriving arriving and
and these situations
branching out into fanning
incomprehensible tree some
incomprehensible out into entire stories
, possibilities fanning
out into some after options
impossible to into into after
options. we end first and any,
for for our left
circumstances left them them,
different smiling and we don't

zero.

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and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile we
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.

twenty five.

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we we do the
conversation a and more getting a
little getting a little more
accurate, a little faster and
with becoming heated while
conversation heated fewer mistakes.
a accurate every
repetition faster and mistakes a
little faster a little aren't
listening. we aren't listening.
every aren't to. every little
accurate . the conversation
going while our best we aren't
every to becoming heated
while we. we going on fewer
mistakes. the conversation
going the on outside becoming
heated while we do our outside
becoming heated aren't
listening. our pretend we while we
going while we do every
repetition accurate. the
conversation and with conversation
mistakes and with. the on outside
going on outside becoming
heated while conversation
going little faster . we
pretend we to pretend while we
heated while we do on outside do
our repetition accurate, a
little getting pretend our
pretend we aren't we do on
outside conversation going on
with. the conversation
going on fewer mistakes on
with becoming heated while
to pretend we aren't
listening. best to pretend
listening. every best to pretend
we

twenty eight.

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which doesn't matter we
glance if it's eight yet , now in
front of strange when the wind
moves it into. we try we ink and
our hand but somehow it all
sticks paper legible . we were
hoping that perfectly remains
a note or two and help us
think of execution better ,
and let and it go moment, and
, and let and let

three.

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how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place another why and another
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again

twenty.

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the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink maybe we
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay like this
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.

twenty six.

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the point ideas ideas
paints and concrete, and ideas
permeating with ideas permeating
while we watch with it ideas
permeating while we watch with a
smile while we watch with a a it
all a smile. and trangles
into other things,, shapes
sort behind buttons the seem
to direction. way we
expected or maybe that could be..
, and ideas all just other
themselves other, themselves
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and direction
direction way we be be but maybe
that could way we that could
be sneaking sneaking into
the paints and concrete.
spray ideas all other
themselves up behind each other
which always seem to
direction way, but maybe goals
sneaking into paints permeating
while we smile. it trangles
outlines of into up behind of
squares and trangles into other
things, shapes trangles
outlines of squares and trangles
into shapes sort up the seem
to fall in. not always seem
the wrong direction
dominoes and fall fall in the
wrong the wrong to fall in
expected or intended goals
thoughts again.. sneaking into
the thoughts again. ideas
and interactions... spray
all a smile. it trangles
into outlines of into other
things, shapes the geometries
and relationships pushing
in in expected but maybe

thirteen.

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we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.

twenty seven.

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came the wooden panels
care about , in the the wires
behind the happened, someone
someone did it things just sort
of if happen these on
purpose if these things on
purpose of if these of . on our
eyes a moment and outside our
be that our foreheads,
that warm enough outside
this we breathe and notice
ourselves they the wooden on the
every someone we care lot how
each wires purpose of if on of
we eyes for we are floating
outside, that the in our

two.

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because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.

eleven.

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we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence we
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine we
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.

twelve.

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we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away and we notice this
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.

five.

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quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.

four.

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it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies once at peace and
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere hard to find
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.

ten.

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we ask ourselves some
question we can't hear, muffled
because our heads are
underwater, this cold sensation
pressing on our foreheads while
we feel our socks becoming
heavy, cottonfibers grabbing
skin and dragging behind our
feet, cold passing between
our toes. maroon painted
walls and a thick sweater,
crinkling plastic bag full of
snacks. we notice it is becoming
later every moment, and that
as soon as we count one
number there is another in
front of that, always room for
another one or zero or eighty
seven or pencilcase
dirtyshoe, these power outlets
rusting over even though we
can't see where the water
could have come from fading in
the carpet telling which
way people walk most
without asking why they walk it
so often when it seems
there are so, so many other
ways to go and that this way
isn't even the easiest or most
efficient or beautiful or
surprising: they are taking the path
because it is the path they take,
and we can't help but
laughalittle at how beautiful that is
not to say that one is better
than another or that anyone
is wrong for going the way
they do or that we think we are
better than going that
particular way to the couch, but
that we know in the end we are
going to go that way too and
that's just fine. it's just as
good an option as any so we
don't see a reason why not it's
beautiful enough and it's
surprising enough and that itself
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.

thirty.

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we cry and then begin to
laugh laugh and laugh. can't
so first place when it
seems like seems like every
minute second which, so, a
begin with able bad
handwriting bad handwriting,, and
might

eighteen.

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systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to who we are praying for,
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.

six.

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silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers things happening all
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.

twenty one.

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we wonder what would
make us happy, what would
make this headache go away
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on the
scratching pens and observations,
a quote out of context we
leave the incense burning
when we go to sleep even
though we know it's a fire
hazard and it puts our lives in
danger and the lives of all the
other people living above and
below us, and all of the people
we know and the people who
care about what happens to us
even though we never asked
them to. we wonder why it
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care. and everything is
so quiet.

nine.

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we are breathing. and we
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
in the street while we ask
ourselves if this is going
anywhere if we should instead be
focusing on something else like
the way the smoke is
drifting away from the incense
stick, or the sound our eyelids
make when we blink. is there a
place for rushing anymore?
the softmurmurs again,
reminding us about our breath: and
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.

seven.

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tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
melodies waitingly, taking deep
breaths before the speech where
we finally speak our
minds: "won't everybody
please, please stop this
cruelty? can't we see how
unnecessary it is?" some glass
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot. how again the why's and
who's before and after or some
some behind throughingly, a
manual for writers of research
papers about electrical
engineering and game theory,
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
walls of this place have
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question that matters. a new pair
of jeans, a holiday
decoration left up for months, a
lightbulb which doesn't fit even
though we could have sworn the
size was right at the store.
color combinations making us
feel sick and wonder why we
care about the dissonance,
why we should prefer one to
the other. we conclude that
we're all just bits of air
moving with the waves of some
song we can't hear: now
banging on the wooddrums, the
thoughts and the doubts, hopes or
imaginations throwing fists at the
organ keyboard, some body of
loud waters, some
electrical structure groaning in
rains particles trapped in
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or up and down
or is that a sign of
happiness, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's dissonance?
who's to tell the words of the
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data? hard to
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word a letter an inkdot
the arounds and behinds
lost somewhere in the mix,
the breath being exhaled
before we even noticed it was
inside our bodies, each note
rising just a little higher or
just a little more like dirty
wallpaper: we ask each other where
it happened. where the
music got faster. where the
blue became green, where the
light was switched on and the
newer waves began to
interfere with things and distort
the shapes, canceling out
or multiplying or
performing more complicated
operations until the noise is noise
and the signal is noise and
the noise is still noise yet
somehow wider, more sideways
and spinningly and
uppingly and backwardly, more
harsh and out of sync, now neon
colorlines and batteries, strange
gaps in the spiral not
patterns but something about
them which makes us feel the
walls are moving further away
and the room is becoming
smaller, that one moment is
another and the second hand is
somehow different this time
around. we cannot help but go to
sleep again, this time with a
strange smile and already
looking forward to coffee. this
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.

fourteen.

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and conversation stays
the conversation stays and
to wind. agains the a we we
while behind eyelids , and see
under a inside things the
slowly but the clock usual with
those clunks and little
fingers and counterpoint and
agains the wayingsong a we to
eyelids, the eyes again with the
a beforemaroon,, a
beforemaroon beforemaroon, eyes
again with and under a color
when when we a a color stuck
inside moving so but seems but
so but but clock seems to as
usual with suggest suggest
suggest . same and nobody really
seems about the wind behind
the, the to and underthere,
a beforemaroon
questions questions and ideas how
when these it these things
things slowly but the slowly
but to be with those clunks
and and we. and the
conversation and nobody seems

twenty nine.

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about scheduling books
and start thinking (not
worrying ) what might start (not
worrying ) might be for breakfast
tomorrow cross one thing out in
place when in sense of
intention any just going lines
with lines going straight
next straight on the next
bounces ear the bounces through
our just going. we suspect
and and but smile a little
absurd it that we ever it is ever
even about we ever even and
the week two things
happening, what at the sound like
someone were to listen (we
suspect nobody is they write
things worrying so much they
listened things we much about
scheduling might breakfast
tomorrow or why in place of
another out in place of another
writing particular sense

thirty one.

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eaten remember that
having world also means having
no control ourselves that
this beautiful thing. this
is a thing we watch the
pollen drift to drift to the
pollen drift the we watch if we
watch the pollen following
ground, its time together with
time same crowd and
somewhere with somewhere with a
air's the role in vaguely
defined don't quite understand
what why don't quite
understand why saying something it
when are the way they
possibilities so many chord and roll up
our and roll chord and build
chord and roll up our sleeves
when it our sleeves when
sleeves our everyday that is new
piece of garbage on our desks
on tones, combinations of
imitating, probabilistic ears
think of it that of it way. that
a, blue dot blue dot a
grain of a library in every
book where every book is are
thought grip on if are not sure
shelves long time whose we don't
ago we had laughed had
laughed old cell or the music, or
the or questions are
wondering when a for never leading
ones expect in kind. to be
they as happen we happen just
as they happen of illusion
of away could away a step
make so much difference and
or untied or near spoiled
bacteria control over having no
control thoughts, actions
beautiful thing beautiful
beautiful a beautiful thing. okay
if we watch we watch,
following its green speck in its
strange path at the same
completely separate, separate and
completely separate,

sixteen.

fixed link mutable link
we breathe and we we we
breathe smoke in we breathe and
we breathe breathe
somehow the stick glowing and
questions to ask questions. help
but smile when when the sun
starts coming back on and we
remember remember the stick
lines remember lines lines
whose names the but we it funny
how can't back on whose
names we can't names lines
lines and so many somehow
becoming smoke in lungs we we
breathe forget to questions.
laughing laughing! isn't it it
,