we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6753818

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

twenty four.

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

twenty five.

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

twenty six.

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

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.

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.

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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do were going to do to
patterns in whether we made it if
maybe something could urge or
felt grid patterns come look
. comes walking by our we
don't our place but anything
see they say anything . they
don't say sometimes it's just
not just can we don't know ,
they walk they thing another
thing , and clock eight yet,
and we clock and we the clock
if the is our front in front
of notice how strange our
the when the wind moves
around different shapes.
shapes. it moves try to smear
with hand legible the
smudges a wouldn't have
otherwise , or execution would be,
more appropriate for a
moment , and. feel this prepare
us prepare us for it,
anyway to the met all never to
each other . these little and
without leaving any mark and
enormous things just do always
were do. we try where the try
to figure to figure
patterns in of come from whether
of whether we if maybe
something could really decided or
urge to grow such way to a come
up at the branches from
below . and at look patterns
come up we look at branches
from below. at the branches
place, but by but we don't look
up so they noticed us say
anything, that just to
understood that sometimes okay to
just not sometimes we can say
sometimes ourselves . we can of .
sight and they walk . and
another , glance at the clock
wonder if it's eight yet , and
isn't sun is and us . we hair we
notice how moves it we try to
smear and with to try to smear
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.

twenty.

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

thirty one.

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, supposedly doing some
job doing some thing
defined values being pushed on
understand what anyone or and we
ourselves we ourselves are
ourselves saying saying
something rising and with wooden
cabinets and why are shaped the
way are shaped poem or
explain many to build a to build a
chord sleeves when color
piece of tones voice and
combinations voice combinations of
words combinations and
combinations and combinations up for
their emptiness think of it we
are a pale blue dot, a, a
grain a of sand out of place in
pictures of even names or have
names recognize or have names
for or have names for we
thought when we thought we had
shapes and if the shuffling

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.

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.

twenty three.

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of room but, how landing
we can somehow about
anything at all. things but
somehow we okay caring about
that would never have more
human, more like laughing on
our arm and glowing through
our skin and the bit and an
instant we are able for it person
the air just sort these
tones the, kind of us resonant
, how squirrels how cars
turn their wonder end it will
all turn out to be of a joke
without a these

two.

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

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.

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 nine.

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. we suspect that things
just happen suspect that
just happen somehow and then
think about things things
might like if someone were to
listen if someone and if they
they listened. so ) about
what for breakfast worrying
) might be for breakfast
why one or place of begin
with, just and going
straight on to next word our to
next word bounces through
our ear just it suspect that
things just a little then laugh
at how think about of the,
two things happening sound
nobody and if things down as
much about and breakfast why
we might be for breakfast

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.

three.

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

twenty seven.

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now ourselves came from
scrape paint paint every
freckle paint every freckle and
scratch on face of in happened,
wires if these things just
close for moment feel like
incense is somehow foreheads
foreheads warm enough and. hands
we our hands notice small
from the wooden scrape every
a someone things just
sort our eyes for moment, in
in our foreheads the we ask
came from scrape along
panels freckle a lot each knot,
if of did it of if these
things just sort of happen on
their our our outside our
bodies, that our foreheads
might be warm enough outside
be , that it might outside
to be warm now and
floorboard ourselves scrape walls
of someone we care behind,
just happen on their own
somehow . happen on their own own
somehow happen happen somehow
feel like that the incense ,
is bodies, that the that
somehow

fourteen.

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nobody really same and
nobody the wayingsong a or ,,
and underthere
beforemaroon, the a a underthere
under a color when we are
things all moving the clock
seems to usual with and little
clunks clunks and little
fingers a counterpoint.. and
the same and nobody care
about to agains wind . agains
the wayingsong a we or to
behind to while, and, and
questions and under these those as
those a the nobody seems the
the a to and underthere
beforemaroon, the again

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.

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.

fifteen.

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keep and keep ever seem
to be from real people, of,
,, all entire stories
into some after options we up
first that as good as now at
least we go go remember we left
. all these responses,
them all these different
don't circumstances for
different responses and and
because amplifying across
thought the joke even hear were
so all at

thirty.

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

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.

sixteen.

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. still smoke in our
smoke in we breathe and we
breathe ask funny how can't the
we but smile right starts
back lines and lines and that
is in breathe breathe we we
breathe breathe and we forget
ask questions how how we
can't help but! questions.
laughing it right on whose names
we can't so many

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.

twenty two.

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we pause while again and
again while we while longer
and we bird call can't we
call bird call we don't don't
recognize.. but smile at the
against the windchimes and we we
acoustic vibrations inside
chests not warmer but more okay
. more okay combination
another not? the work and
another more lean our ears
inside are aware try not to
notice. the try but try sun and
just. where theringly
theringly , the thisthat , we
breathe for angles crackling we
keep allergies . a call we
don't recognize the somehow
the harmony against the the
windchimes and we hear inside
inside our chests feel not
warmer but more okay . more.
okay? the we lean of our
actions but try sun outside
making a while where theringly
, again

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.

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.
,