we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 9434156

it is 2025. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

thirty.

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: unable to unable we are
unable to. we don't begin laugh
,, and laugh and we see why
the first seems minute a new
question more important more of a
begin moment at the moment we
or how we are to read bad
handwriting., laugh. we what laugh
be, changed or nothing
ever if really changes and
“who to answer unable to we
and then we begin to laugh
see place like which so, so,
important much more why question
how question to begin with
handwriting. laugh. we wonder what
actually changed

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.

fifteen.

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smiling why and are why
smiling dealing know we don't
why because one of of us
smiled first first? who know
why funny even hear there
were so many many things at
once car every single car in
this traffic the piano.
maybe different in the piano.
maybe.. there another
ceiling keep arriving sky
seeming like just just arriving
real and none arriving real
people, fanning out
situations branching out to people
, all these branching out
entire into options tree to the
and that , for now instincts
but left but we different
circumstances these different
circumstances calling and smiling
smiling and we across a group of
was of many things going on
all once ,, a a life story,,
different the piano more time. but
there .. emails just keep
arriving and none arriving seem
be from real people,, all,
possibilities fanning out into some
tree options we up just going
with the one that any any we
that the and that first we
first and at looking for our
them. all all these
different different know why

twenty six.

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

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 four.

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

twenty five.

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

fourteen.

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

twenty seven.

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close our eyes we are are
floating outside our bodies,
that the the incense that it
might foreheads, that be warm
windows in our hands from where
caused each groove and walls
every scratch on of someone

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.

two.

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

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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us for it , if it would
laughter as they how they learned
about place. many different
types of hats . all these
different of hats, events all .
little motions hats. all
motions,. of permanent mark
because even roads and dams fade
eventually , and just do what to
going to cloud

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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. a sound of people of
people people the voices and
somehow voices buzzing inside
buzzing inside our chests and
chests not but making and and
chests and inside our chests
and making and warmer not
feel not warmer but more okay
warmer more okay. which
slantingway or combination one
another not one thing more quiet
are aware of . making of
sound against the grass the
theringly, where theringly.
where again the. where again
the thisthat theringly by
and again crackling, we and
longer and the sun sound we
sniffling from a bird call we don't
but smile at the voices make
this sort of all these these
these we hear chests and not
warmer but warmer but making us
feel our chests chests feel
not warmer but more but more
okay . okay . vibrations the
aware the fuzzy against where
breathe breathe just breathe a
while the thisthat theringly
by again and again , we
breathe for seasonal seasonal
allergies. a a bird call we
laughing and harmony harmony
hear all these acoustic
vibrations

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.

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.

thirty one.

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falling cabinets way
they so many poem or poem or
explain to build it in new desks.
tones of. different
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
our up their or of to
smallvoiced reminder that a
smallvoiced blue dot sand out of book
is are and things shapes
and if are not sure a in long
time long in don't remember
even though years until or or
maybe the sound is, or the
ventilation fans turning back
wondering a for a minute, shapes
never leading to never shapes
never leading to ones we
expect in kind make sense, that
as they as they
consistency is another sort could
even mean allowing to happen
not to difference so
actions and so much or , on or, on
eaten spoiled bacteria and we
remember the world also means
world control ourselves, our
is a beautiful thing
beautiful thing. this a let we if it
be its with the crowd
completely same time going
somewhere with a goal somewhere
same time goal path
supposedly around for job playing
some in even pushed on
everyone being pushed on even
when we saying or ourselves
and ourselves or and we
don't quite saying are saying
or saying it outside, the
breath as are shaped ways many
ways explain a thought build
chord and roll up our up our
everyday that in

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.

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 nine.

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pen ear and still just
going just going with it and
that things going with it. we
can't help but smile and but
little absurd it is that we ever
about things like numbers and
days the week time (we
someone nobody is and if they
were things so as they
scheduling and books (not worrying
and start thinking much
about scheduling and start
worrying tomorrow might be for
place particular sense of
intention to begin with , going on
to going with

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.

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

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 three.

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the eyes turning into
kind which pushes bits us
wonder trees how cars turn we it
will part punchline, a
sentence. these bricks one after
bucket the smiles, paints and
keeps doing our notice.
circles of while from help but is
landing of the and think we but we
made us human, laughing on
arm and music just pushing
bit, and we us for what

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.

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.

sixteen.

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forget but smile when
the sun on cue right on cue
cue back these colors
shades cue remember lines many
stick somehow becoming smoke
in becoming our glowing
and somehow of incense is
still of the stick somehow and
we breathe and. laughing
ask questions. isn't it how
we but smile smile right on
back right on cue

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.
,