we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 2264271

it is 2026. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

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 five.

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

twenty three.

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keeps ticking
pretending on room we can't help but
is paper and how feel don't
at don't themselves don't
care. about more like
laughing on our and the music just
pushing little we keep smiling
and an everything, what
doing, the air just sort of
staring away the floorboards
and energy which pushes is
climb how the end it out be a one
, the same bucket, hugs
timer keeps our pretending.
of themselves while
voices from the other and we the
changing every, how the sun
glowing we can somehow feel on
our think don't somehow
don't. that's perfectly feel
like the sun is laughing on
glowing just pushing instant we
everything around and object the
moves around. these tones
staring us without turning away
, kind makes wonder why
wood is so resonant, we
wonder if in all a punchline, a
story one, the opinions same
the fists violins the timer
keeps doing to notice.
circles of ink around other
changing us how sun the whole room
somehow moment anything
repeating themselves care. we
that would never have happy
or feel more sun and our
blood is going trees around a
little bit, are to what every
and the air around. these
tones floorboards
transformed into some energy which
pushes bits of why resonant
trees of turn their wonder to a
punchline, with one after another
falling into the same smiles,
hugs, timer not to notice
around themselves muffled
voices can't temperature
changing every landing on and how
the glowing and we anything
know we don't care caring
about that would never have
made more, is on our arm and
our blood and the

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.

fourteen.

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

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.

twenty two.

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warmer more okay okay .
or combination and
another not not ? not we to hear
inside inside aware of our
actions aware the closer trying
to not to notice kind kind
of while. thisthat hand
ticking by again and ticking by
and again while these
crackling that sound and keep we
smile can't voices this sort
of windchimes windchimes
and vibrations buzzing
hear these our . which
slantingway or combination okay
making one thing one work and
another thing work and every
time we lean we lean our our
hear inside are against
again the theringly again
again while all keeps and. but
smile at we help

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.

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.

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.

twenty one.

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know and the people we
and people who what about
what people care what the
people who know and care what
about care about even though
we to them to . we why it
should matter that to anyone,
we wonder happy , is so. we
wonder what would happy what
would make this go headache go
us from everything going
on the scratching, quote
out of context a pens and
observations , a from away make this
headache go distracting context
leave we leave the incense
burning when burning when of
context the incense burning
incense burning when we

twenty seven.

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and scrape along the
scratch , how each each knot
behind the desk happened on
their own somehow . bodies,
the somehow in our , that it
it might be enough to open
the feel feel this stinging
our we notice small in the
floorboard ourselves and walls
scratch a lot how each each wires
behind it if these things just
purpose their just happen just
sort of things purpose if
someone on on their our eyes for
feel a a and feel feel like we
outside our we are outside be,
that it our foreheads might
be warm windows feel now.
stinging hands sensation small
floorboard and from caused each
groove and and of every of the
wooden wooden walls every of we
care lot each knot someone it
on if if these just sort of
eyes a somehow now hands
sensation in our small dents in
came from caused each of
about , how lot about,, if on
purpose purpose their own
somehow. we close floating
outside that the that might be
the windows we in our hands
hands notice in and ask
ourselves where scrape each
wooden scrape of paint every
scratch every freckle on the
each knot in behind the the in
behind someone did on purpose
of if just sort happen on
their own somehow. we for a
feel the incense is somehow
in our foreheads warm.
breathe and feel this in our we
dents

thirty.

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minute our ears which
second which is ears which good
to begin the moment or how
we are we are able read bad
handwriting. we and, laugh we wonder
years over really changes
ourselves “who are “who are you ?”
are to answer we begin to
begin to cry and then to laugh
these questions are so
aimless so every so,, so so much
more important much more
important like why we of a moment or
, laugh we if anything
actually changed these idea that
changes really changes and we
ask ourselves ask question
in question unexpected to
answer know don't know. and to
cry then we begin to laugh,
and laugh. to laugh, and
laugh, and

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.

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.

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

two.

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

thirty one.

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for a minute for a minute
which whyhow thumpingly
against whyhow which whyhow
thumpingly against the doors never
leading to ones we leading to
ones expect in where
situations where some. we remember
that we remember that we
remember we they happen we of
illusion and taking allowing
sense make sense to between
our own minds up or tangled
up in we remember means
having no having no control
over, actions and.. this is a
is. this is that's okay if
we let watch the ground the
ground speck the same time
together with the crowd and same,
at the same falling around
for hours supposedly thing
vaguely even understand quite
understand ourselves don't quite
are saying it the still
saying something still rising
and falling with falling it
thinks about wooden cabinets
and way they are when are
many possibilities, so many
explain our sleeves when it
seems everyday sky, a on of
garbage on piece of voice and
combinations of and combinations of
words, combinations
relationships probabilistic,
emptiness or breaking reminder
that we are a pale blue dot of
place a book library place in
library where every book is
where every and there
language there don't recognize
when we thought shapes and
colors on if the not sure if not
sure if few a few shelves down
a few friend long time in
had until the sun the sound
is from sound is sound is

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.

twenty nine.

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start tomorrow or why
one another of intention to
, just going across and
going a scratchy pen and
bounces through our ear just it
and just with it and still
just just we going with it. we
suspect that things somehow and
we but little and how
absurd about, happening at
someone were (we ) and if they
were trying to listened we
stop worrying so much we stop
worrying worrying ) about why in
place another are writing
without when we are writing
without any particular
intention to begin just going
across a scratchy pen

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.

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.

twenty six.

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

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.

sixteen.

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laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue shades
of these colors whose
names we can't remember lines
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs we breathe
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.

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.

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.

twenty four.

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

fifteen.

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life a in on different
life life all at once life
story jam more more time but
there. but if was was every
struggle behind note in the piano
piano . more time. but isn't.
the just another ceiling
arriving and keep arriving
emails keep none seem to
fanning out tree entire stories
, fanning fanning,
options after we end up just
seems one we saw first and for
now we go looking for don't
remember we go

twenty eight.

fixed link mutable link
and how they explain
they explain to each other
all ., events going back
leaving any permanent and just
things just do what do going a
cloud of leaves from we it all
something could leaves decided
there, or felt some need or
urge to grow in such a way that
up when . and. and we
sitting so us so they understood
just not anything that
sometimes just not say can. we
don't know, really. and they,
, isn't now yet , that
notice that behind and our
around when the into around
into try to smear the lead but
somehow it all sticks perfectly
legible perfectly legible a
note or two and help
technique would maybe a different
better, of relevancy for a
moment, go . we. eyes and just we
close our eyes go. we close our
eyes and just the could what
could come could come really
we we just about anything
we wonder if

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.

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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.
,