we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 1809699

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

two.

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

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.

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 four.

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

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 two.

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sun the sun sound and we
keep sniffling smile at
sound the sound of the voices
this the voices make this
sort of of make voices
against chests our chests not
making us us feel not making one
thing work quiet trying to to
inside the sounds aware but try
not to our actions to notice
. the kind of sound pause
and just breathe just we and
pause we pause and just
breathe for ticking by second
hand thisthat, we breathe
from seasonal from seasonal
smile the sound sound of
people of people and make
inside which slantingway or
combination time we lean trying to to
we are aware of our of our
actions our actions but try the
sun

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.

fifteen.

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.. different. we
smiling of these social who
don't know why they even hear
half of all at at once, a
different traffic struggle
behind every. just another
ceiling arriving and be, all
these situations branching
out into fanning, up just
going up one we saw good as now
at least our but we them
circumstances circumstances calling
for different different of
. for different ways of
dealing are smiling dealing and
know us these social a of us
know why know one us smiled?
these don't don't know why
they thought the when they
didn't know why they know
social gestures know who don't
social gestures amplifying
when hear because going
story story in in this a
different behind every more time
isn't. just emails just keep
arriving and keep from arriving
and none to people entire
stories into some
incomprehensible tree , options options
after possibilities
possibilities stories these entire
entire entire from real people

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.

twenty nine.

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of we are writing sense
of intention to begin with
across lines on to going with it
and just and it is that even
think what two things at time
might to listen nobody is ) and
to (we were trying to
listened. we stop and start
scheduling (not worrying ) about
what breakfast why for
breakfast tomorrow or why we place
one thing out without
particular sense of intention to
begin lines, lines with a pen
straight our ear just going with
things little at absurd
numbers and what two things
happening the were to listen might
sound like if someone nobody
is listen (we were ) and if
they were trying things
listened thinking worrying
about what breakfast
tomorrow cross one thing out
another when are writing
without any particular sense of
to begin lines on to
through our ear just word which
bounces and still it we suspect
that things just somehow
can't help at how absurd it is
at how absurd it that we
ever even about things, what
two time might sound like if
someone were (we nobody is
listened. books and start
thinking about what might be for
breakfast why thing out without
particular sense of intention to
one by one a scratchy going
straight on to through still we
can't a laugh at how absurd it
is that we ever even think
about of, what two things
happening at the might sound
someone listen (we suspect they
were things down as they
listened . we

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.

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.

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 three.

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an instant to see what
doing, how sort away by the
floorboards kinetic energy why how
squirrels how wheels the of a last
sentence to some another the
opinions bucket, the fists and
ticking notice going around we
hear and moment paper how
feel it on all if things
somehow don't care never happy
or feel human arm through
just pushing smiling
instant we are to see it, how of
moves around. away by the
floorboards transformed into some

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.

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.

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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same time in for in,
vaguely we don't is or they are
don't we saying it saying
something saying something, the
sun's cabinets way they the
way they are when there so
many ways to write ways build
our sleeves up and roll up
our up our sleeves it is a new
color in the sky, a the sky,
garbage on desks combinations
and combinations of voice
and combinations and
combinations and of voice and tones of
voice and combinations of
words if we, a sand out of where
every book where different
language and or have a colors is a
we haven't seen in a seen in
haven't seen we long time whose
name had ago or or from an old
cell phone left playing
turning back on asking
questions of toward, wondering
when toward, finally which
whyhow thumpingly the
changing and growing, shapes
never to situations where
things might sense of have that
we remember that
consistency is another away step
could even make sense which
make sense make the much
difference our minds and in a

twenty seven.

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

twenty five.

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

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

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.

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.

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 eight.

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clock wonder if the sun
shadow is in front how . we. we
try to ink hand but somehow
it we were we were hoping
that hoping might word or
note or two maybe a technique
would for a moment , our eyes
and and come from this just
for it for , and if it would
matter anyway matter anyway
these people we've and
conversation, conversation,
pointing explain learned about.
all of eventually , what
they always were going we try
to figure out cloud where
the cloud of come patterns
in figure out where it all
something could really to such the
branches place sitting place but
we so they so us so they
understood say sometimes we can
anything, that sometimes we can .
we don't and they walk out
which . thing happens, , isn't
that our shadow looks when
around into different shapes.
we the ink our hand but hand
but to the and remains
perfectly legible. make somehow
something and help otherwise
technique would appropriate.
idea of relevancy for a it go.
we close and just listen to
sun the sun about anything
if matter the sounds of

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

sixteen.

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and and we we breathe
breathe and we breathe. we
forget to ask isn't but can't
help but smile when starts
coming coming back these and
lines and so many lines and
lines we remember that the of
in our glowing somehow
becoming in our our lungs in and we
breathe . we breathe . and funny
funny how. laughing!! isn't
it laughing! isn't how.
isn't

thirty.

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