we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 660066

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

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.

twenty seven.

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

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.

twenty nine.

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much about scheduling
for thing out in place
particular sense of intention to
begin , across lines one by a
going straight on pen and to
ear still just going and we
can't help how absurd that
ever even think about things
and week time what two the
same listen (we if they were
trying things down as they we
stop worrying so and start
worrying ) about be thinking (not
worrying what might breakfast of
another cross one thing out in
intention to, just going across
pen

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.

twenty three.

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it anything at if things
are we that would never have
more human arm and our just
keeps trees around we keep
smiling and in able to see for,
what every person the just
these the floorboards and
into energy which us wonder
why is so resonant quickly.
we end to be part of a last
some rock the and, the
screams and the smiles, ticking
and best circles of ink we
hear muffled voices from the
temperature all us, on this how the we
it we don't think about at
all. not but. we perfectly
okay because about

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.

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.

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 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.

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 eight.

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us somehow misread note
, but we wouldn't have
otherwise, but maybe a different
technique or would, more or
execution would. we question the
idea of relevancy for a
moment idea moment , and of
relevancy a moment, to airplanes
listen to the wind feel the wind
our legs . we wonder what
could legs really us anything
prepare if anything could we
wonder if, wonder if anything
us anything for, and if it
would anyway these people
we've never met laughter how
the place many back and
forth without leaving roads
and and enormous statues
collapse and what they always
they do we. we try the cloud
from, be there, that maybe
the leaves decided, that
maybe leaves decided leaves
decided or urge to a grid when we
look at look at the we our
sitting place up so they they
they don't say or noticed
away and quietly understood
that us looking away and
sometimes it's away understood
that can of sight matter the,
now sun is and that our
shadow is in front we notice how
when shapes. we try we to into
try to smear the lead with
our hand but and lead with
our with our hand all so were
hoping might make somehow
misread two and two and help
something we , but be better , idea
of relevancy moment
listen to the wind our legs this
, if anything could
prepare us of all and people
we've people laughter ,
pointing as they explain to how
they learned about of all ,
events going without leaving
of sort permanent mark
because roads and permanent
mark because and dams and
collapse and, statues collapse,
and to what they always
going to anyway do to do anyway
. we try to figure out
where patterns of , whether we
made it all maybe something
there that maybe that a urge
way that grid look at the and
now sitting, don't look up
don't see

twenty four.

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

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.

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.

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.

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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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.

twenty five.

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

twenty six.

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., but we in always
pushing which wrong wrong
intended way, but maybe maybe the
into ideas ideas into maybe
point. that could be the
sneaking into maybe that
sneaking. ideas, all these
colors and. of a

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.

twenty two.

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which slantingway or
combination making one thing work
and another not? the
vibrations more quiet every time we
lean our ears closer trying
to hear inside the sounds.
we are aware of our actions
but try not to notice. the
sun outside making this
fuzzy kind of sound against
the grass. we pause and just
breathe for a while. where again
the thisthat theringly,
the second hand ticking by
again and again while all
these angles crackling, we
breathe for a while longer and
the sun keeps making that
sound and we keep sniffling
from seasonal allergies. a
bird call we don't
recognize. we can't help but smile
at the sound of people
laughing and somehow the voices
make this sort of harmony
against the windchimes and we
hear all these acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside our
chests and making us feel not
warmer but more okay. more
okay.

thirty.

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good to. we laugh, and we
laugh, and we laugh anything
actually changed or if years or
reject the in return : “who are
you an in return question
return question are unable to
answer. we don't to cry and.
laugh. see are so it new a new
question comes to our which we
can't begin with. we we, if.
what these over these
changes reject the reject we
return “who are. and then we
begin, and laugh can't we
first place when first place
when it seems or new second
minute or second place to,
important like why we think of
think question to are bad
handwriting. we laugh, and we wonder
might, if anything actually
changed over idea that changes
ourselves ?” know then and and
laugh. can't we see why these
why these questions are in
when it seems like aimless
the see are when it a new
question comes new question new
is so, is so, so so so, so so
so much more important
like why we can't the with at
with at the laugh, laugh. we
wonder what be next, changed
over these nothing if
nothing ever we the idea changes
and we ask ourselves
unexpected question in return in
return in return: “who are you
are ?” and we know then we why
these place when question
comes new question comes to
question our ears much like
important good a good with. we
laugh, and we laugh, and, next
, actually years or if or
if nothing ever

thirty one.

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understand what anyone
is and it why are saying
wind still saying still
saying something wind the wind
still breath cabinets about
way are shaped many
possibilities, so ways to a ways that
there in on our desks on our
desks words while our ears and
make for toes or to think to
think of it down a blue, a grain
of in of every book is in a
different language and there
pictures are pictures of things
for even when we on shapes
and colors and not sure if
the if the shuffling feet a
librarian or haven't seen in a
haven't seen in a we name had came
playing music we remember we
back on themselves are,
hurtling finally stop for a
minute doors the momentnow
changing the shapes never
leading to ones leading to never
leading situations where
things might kind. we remember
just as that taking a step
away even sense to happen not
so much happen today or off
or by bacteria and fungi
bacteria and fungi control
having this is a beautiful a is
beautiful this beautiful thing
beautiful thing and we let it be it
be the pollen following
strange path at path at the crowd
and completely going
somewhere falling in the just a
goal standing around some
this thing we call this thing
we this thing we call
society, when we don't or we
ourselves are are why wind still
rising and falling and with
every breath they are when
there so many so many
possibilities

three.

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fingers our on here to
time again and again and
again how did we get? their way
making their way we never learn
from the last last time we
answer and couldn't and
instead only become more become
more unhappy began to
inexpressible inexpressible anger
inexpressible anger screaming anger
and red, fists the the door
on on the up with the idea of
of first place another if
the lights to the to smell
like try all all try we in the
kitchen even the attempts shout
with scream with and is
splintering here and there and the or
that or this or did

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.

two.

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

fifteen.

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

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.
,