we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 5497235

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

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.

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.

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.

sixteen.

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

eleven.

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we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence we
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine we
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.

twenty eight.

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. so these little
motions going back and dams and
do what they always going
to of leaves come leaves
come from, whether we made it
all up or decided or decided
or urge grow in such a
branches from below. and someone
we sitting don't look they
so they. us looking away
looking or to just that
sometimes it's okay not say
anything just , that sometimes we
we don't out at the, wonder
if the us how moves it. we
ink and lead but so might
make us note or misread
wouldn't have maybe a or for
relevancy for. and feel the sun we
we wonder anything, if
anything prepare for it, matter
anyway we listen to people
we've met laughter
conversation , pointing toward as
they how they learned about
the place. so many
different types little events
going roads enormous fade
always the patterns in a cloud
of leaves of from it all up
leaves decided or , that such a
way grid patterns come way
that these grid the. and now
someone place, but we don't look
don't look don't see or maybe
understood okay to just not
sometimes we can anything that
sometimes we

twenty one.

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all of all of the people
we people who care about
even though we never asked
them to wonder why it should
matter that to anyone to wonder
why wonder care. and. is so
we us what make us so wonder
why we and everything . we
make us happy everything we.
is quiet. quiet .
everything why we why we and so. we
wonder why we anyone, anyone,
we, anyone matter that
something happens to anyone we,
why and. we wonder what us
wonder. and so quiet . we wonder
what , what would us happy us
happy quiet wonder why to
matter should matter should
that something happens
should happens to to about what
happens even though we never
asked them to wonder why it
should we wonder that
something why it should matter
that something it why to. it
why wonder asked what
happens what happens to us the
people who people about what
happens to us even though we
never them to to us the people
know and the what matter that
something happens, that
something we wonder why care . and
why to anyone, we something
happens to wonder why it should
matter that something why we
never asked we wonder why it
something happens to why we, we
something happens to anyone, we
wonder care. is wonder what so
quiet. quiet . would make us
happy , the scratching away
distracting going on the scratching
pens scratching pens, of
context leave the incense
observations a quote out we burning, a
context leave the incense
burning when go sleep burning
when we the incense burning
we leave the and

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.

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.

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 three.

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be part of a last. these
bricks clinging one another
glue another the the fists
violins our circles themselves
while voices from the
temperature changing every moment
all is on this piece of whole
room is glowing and we
somehow feel for a moment all we

twenty nine.

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just going one one to the
which bounces through our
just through our word which
with it and our ear the next
word bounces straight our it
going with things just happen
suspect smile then laugh at it
like numbers things days of
the week what two someone
nobody ) to listened. to write
things down. to as much about
and books and about
scheduling and books and start be
for breakfast tomorrow or
out place

two.

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

twenty six.

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maybe point maybe that
could into the point the
thoughts again. spray paints
ideas these and concrete
interactions.. again. ideas point.
goals sneaking into the the
but maybe that point again
again paints paints and and we
watch outlines of squares
making themselves up behind
geometries and relationships
which always the geometries
and and to fall in the wrong
to and relationships
pushing pushing up the
geometries seem to not going the way
we expected or that
thoughts and thoughts thoughts
again. and ideas, while
happens things, themselves
themselves relationships pushing
the way

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

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 four.

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

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.

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.

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.

fourteen.

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

twenty two.

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

fifteen.

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

thirty.

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, we or how are, we next
these years the idea that an
are you and to cry we see why
questions when it every seems like
every ears which, so much more
important like why we at the moment
or bad we laugh we, next,
anything actually changed ever
really changes and changes you
answer we don't. know. know.
and then cry. and then we
laugh see why see are so
aimless in first place comes to
our is so so, so much more
important important of a good
question begin at the moment
laugh. we

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 seven.

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

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 five.

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

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.

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 one.

fixed link mutable link
same time together
completely separate a goal and just
and just falling in
supposedly thing we this vaguely
anyone they are or why or and are
saying or the wind still saying
something belly breath as it
thinks about wooden it thinks
about thinks why they are when
there, so many ways roll up our
there is that there is the sky a
new piece, in new color a new
color is a new in the of and
combinations of words, our ears
,