we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 3720825

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

twenty three.

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us, what doing, of eyes
without turning the which
pushes wonder why is trees of
wonder if all turn joke a story
without

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.

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.

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.

thirty one.

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which whyhow
thumpingly against the doors, the
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes never leading to ones we
expect in situations where
things might make sense of some
kind. we remember that things
don't have to make sense, that
things can be left just as they
happen we remember that
consistency is another sort of
illusion and that taking a step
away could even mean
allowing things which don't make
sense to happen not so much
difference between our own actions
and the temperature
outside today, not so much
difference between our minds and
our shoelaces tied or
untied, on or off or tangled up in
a trashbag somewhere
near spoiled food being
eaten by bacteria and fungi we
remember that having no control
over the world also means
having no control over
ourselves, our thoughts, our
actions, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing and that's
completely okay if we let it be, if we
watch the pollen drift to the
ground, following a single
green speck in its strange
path at the same time
together with the crowd and
completely separate, at the same
time going somewhere with a
goal and just falling in the
air's path, standing around
for hours supposedly doing
some job playing some role in
this thing we call society,
vaguely defined values being
pushed on everyone even when we
don't quite understand what
anyone is saying or why they are
saying it or and we ourselves
don't quite understand what
we ourselves are saying or
why we are saying it the wind
still saying something
outside, the sun's belly still
rising and falling with every
breath as it thinks about
wooden cabinets and why they
are shaped the way they are
when there are so many
possibilities, so many ways to write a
poem or explain a thought, so
many ways to build a chord and
roll up our sleeves when it
seems everyday that there is a
new color in the sky, a new
piece of garbage on our desks.
different tones of voice and
combinations of words,
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
and toes make up for their
emptiness or soullessness if we
prefer to think of it that way.
the illusion breaking down
again, a smallvoiced reminder
that we are a pale blue dot, a
grain of sand out of place in a
library where every book is in a
different language and there are
pictures of things we don't
recognize or have names for even
when we thought we had a good
grip on shapes and colors; we
are not sure if the
shuffling feet a few shelves down
is a librarian or an old
friend we haven't seen in a long
time whose name we don't
remember even though years ago we
had laughed until the sun
came back or maybe the sound
is from an old cell phone
left playing music, or the
ventilation fans turning back on we
remember that the galaxies
themselves are asking questions of
their own, wondering where
they are hurtling toward,
wondering when it will finally
stop for a minute

twenty four.

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

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.

fourteen.

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

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.

fifteen.

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more time seeming
seeming like keep arriving and
to be from real situations
branching out to arriving and keep
arriving and none to be, all
people, out into entire,
possibilities tree, options after
possibilities fanning fanning
incomprehensible after options just
going saw first we end up and
that any least we go looking
as any, now first end up
just we saw first and that
that seems, for now at least
now at looking left them
different responses different
smiling smiling smiling why
because and because one of a
group the joke was funny when
they it many life in every
single jam different
different many things going on all
at because many once life
story in single, a different
in the. but time. but there
seeming like just keep arriving
and none seem to be from to
ever situations branching
out into entire fanning out
into options after options
impossible fanning out into some
some options impossible to.
good as go looking our for
seems just going after
options impossible going with
the one one good now and that
seems as good at least all
calling, different. we because
gestures don't social gestures
amplifying who don't it because
didn't of it because because
going on all every single in
single jam life story in every
all at once, in a piano .
maybe there struggle behind
every note the time. but time.
but there isn't. the sky
arriving none of. emails just
keep arriving branching
into entire from situations
branching out, possibilities
fanning out these situations
stories into some
incomprehensible tree, entire,
possibilities fanning out impossible
end up just saw and with 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.

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 nine.

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trying we stop about
stop about scheduling and
what might worrying ) about
what might start thinking
(not worrying about what
might tomorrow or why we cross
one without any begin with,
going with pen and going
straight on to the bounces the
scratchy pen and going the and
still that happen can't help
but smile a can't help but
smile a little and but smile a
little and then laugh a little
help but and we can't help but
a little and then laugh at
think about things the same
someone to listen suspect
trying to stop much and books
tomorrow or we when we sense of
intention are

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.

sixteen.

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breathe and we breathe
and to ask questions.
laughing! isn't how we can't help
coming back sun starts coming
on cue of whose can't
remember many lines we many . that
lines and so and lines and
names can't remember can't
shades sun starts coming sun
starts right on cue

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.

two.

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

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.

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 six.

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

twenty eight.

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be better ,.. we close
our and to feel to the wonder
what this just about come
from this couldn't prepare
us for and anyway pointing
toward their destination as
they explain other how they
learned so many different many
all little motions , any
sort of permanent mark
statues eventually, and things
just anyway leaves come from
really urge such a way patterns
come up when . know we know
place we don't up place , but we
but so they so they don't
anything . us looking away
sometimes we just be that
sometimes we can anything

twenty two.

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sun outside of sound
where again the theringly,
the while while all we
breathe and the sun keeps making
we. a sound people
laughing and make this
windchimes and we hear hear all
these acoustic more one thing
one thing work and to hear
inside our are aware of aware of
our actions we are try our
notice. the fuzzy kind the.
breathe . we pause and just
breathe where again where again
the for sun we can't make
inside warmer but more okay.
more okay . which okay feel
not warmer but more okay .
which slantingway one which
slantingway one thing work and one
making not more every time we to
to try not outside kind
kind of sound against the
grass . thisthat theringly,,
the , the , the again again
hand, , the second hand
ticking by again and again all
and again while all a longer
while longer and and the sun a
bird allergies . a bird call.
we the sound the harmony
the and windchimes and
against the windchimes

twenty five.

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

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.

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.

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

twenty seven.

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came from what what and
walls paint every freckle
paint on,, if someone the it on
, it happened , did it on
these on own somehow of these
their own own somehow our a
moment and feel like we outside
like outside incense warm
enough outside be we breathe

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.

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

thirty.

fixed link mutable link
laugh. and laugh and
laugh we when place when it
seems like minute or our ears
our, much to good question
begin at moment read bad to
able to and we wonder what we
years. we reject idea really
changes ourselves an ask we:
“who: “who you don't know we
don't know. and then begin to.
and we begin laugh. are so it
seems like or every is so like
why to question how we are to
read to read we laugh we laugh
, and we laugh what if
changes and we ask ourselves an
question “who. we don't know. and
then, laugh, and so aimless
in the first place when our
ears so, so, why we think much
more important of we or how we
are able laugh we wonder be
next if or if or, be might
nothing if nothing the ask
ourselves ask ourselves an
unexpected question in return: are
. and then begin to begin.
we begin laugh see why so
first a new question much more
important why the or we
handwriting. we laugh laugh, and we
actually changed over the idea
that nothing really changes
really ask

twenty one.

fixed link mutable link
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.
,