we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 9664613

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

twenty seven.

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happened, behind each
knot in the wires on purpose
of their own feel
foreheads that in warm enough open
the windows this our we
dents where came from groove
and scrape along the each
each each groove from what
caused each groove paint every
and on someone we, if
someone desk in the on someone
sort these things just sort
on on their own close our
eyes outside our bodies,
that outside foreheads is
somehow might be warm enough
outside to breathe the windows

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.

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.

three.

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the is so we all try the
kitchen kitchen last but we
can't can't but to words with
fewer words words fingers
with and harder and harder on
splintering to that and again how?
the mouths could answer
unhappy and walls with some
inexpressible red face and bulging
veins, veins not even caught
up door being there in the
first place another place
another why and to flicker if
causing if the lights smell like
to last we can't we can't
make make us shout fewer our
with our and

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.

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.

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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these but the seems be
with those clunks and little
little those as usual working
as with those little
suggest a and and we the
conversation stays the same really
same seems nobody really
seems to care really seems to
about the a we eyelids eyelids
, behind and, a a the with
the the eyes again
questions when moving so fingers
and woodenbits we suggest a
counterpoint . and and nobody nobody
really seems to care about the a
the while or to to and
underthere, beforemaroon, the
eyes again questions these
moving so slowly and we suggest
a counterpoint .

twenty five.

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

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.

twenty nine.

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

twenty four.

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

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 six.

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the geometries buttons
always buttons and and
relationships in the wrong the way
could be the into the sneaking
into maybe that could be
goals. spray. ideas and
interactions. spray ideas ideas
permeating permeating while while
we smile. happens
outlines outlines all and
trangles up behind other
themselves other making other the
the seem going the could be
the point. thoughts again
paints and while we watch with
with a while happens
outlines of of each other buttons
wrong direction way we
expected the ideas and the
thoughts again. sneaking into
the thoughts again
interactions colors colors with a
smile. and ideas permeating
with all all just happens . it
all a smile. outlines of of
making and relationships
dominoes to fall in the wrong
direction intended, we expected
maybe that point. goals
sneaking into the thoughts again
again sneaking but sneaking
and colors colors and it it
all permeating with
happens and and trangles up
behind the geometries and and
fall fall in the wrong wrong
going the could be the but into
the point. the thoughts
again. ideas and these watch
with with outlines all all
just happens into into
outlines all just happens and,
shapes sort of making
themselves up up behind
relationships pushing which in the
always seem to wrong seem to and
dominoes dominoes which always
in the wrong going maybe
the point the thoughts
again interactions. spray
permeating all into other things,
making themselves up behind
each other relationships
pushing

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.

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.

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 eight.

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our in front of us. when
the around into the ink hand
sticks to the paper perfectly
legible. we were hoping
perfectly legible the word or us
somehow misread or note or note
or two us help or and two and
think of something we
wouldn't have maybe a different
technique idea appropriate. we
question the idea of relevancy
for a let it go. we sun legs .
really, and prepare us for if it
would matter anyway we listen
the of sounds matter anyway
listen to, pointing toward
their destination as they
explain types of hats. all these
little motions , events going
back and any sort of
permanent enormous statues
enormous statues and things they
to figure patterns a come
we made it really be or felt
some in such a way up when . and
walking by our sitting place ,
but say noticed looking and
quietly understood to that
sometimes we can just be. we don't
know, they out of really . and
, and glance at wonder
eight yet that the and that our
try to the paper smudges us
we something we wouldn't
have otherwise, technique
would

thirty one.

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completely okay if we
pollen drift to the ground, the
its same time at air's in
vaguely defined values when
what anyone or and we
ourselves don't are saying or
saying wind the something
belly breath it thinks about
wooden cabinets the way are are
the so possibilities, so
ways to write many ways to
build a to build a a a piece of
new sky desks. of words, our
up for down again, a
smallvoiced reminder that a dot, out
is in a different language
and there pictures there
have names had good grip; and
; we not sure the feet if
shelves a librarian we haven't
whose name we don't remember
even don't we had back from an
old cell phone playing
phone left playing music, or
remember that the of their own,
own, wondering they which
doors, the momentnow ones
sense of might that things
that things that things can
be happen we remember we
remember that consistency is
another sort could even mean
could make sense which
allowing things mean allowing
mean allowing

twenty two.

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make this against the
windchimes we we hear all our chests
and making us feel
combination which or combination
and every we are aware of our
our fuzzy. where again the
thisthat angles longer that
sound and we keep keep.
recognize. we help but smile at
smile can't help but smile
somehow the voices make this
sort of harmony voices make
voices voices make laughing
voices make acoustic and
acoustic vibrations vibrations
buzzing inside our one thing and
one thing our ears trying
closer trying to hear inside
the inside we are of actions
actions but try not just breathe
breathe for a while where again
where again the crackling, we
breathe a while longer and sun
keeps making that sound
recognize recognize we at sound
and somehow voices make
somehow the voices against make
this sort of harmony against
the windchimes we acoustic
and making us inside warmer
but feel not warmer us or
combination making thing work and
and another not to trying . .
we our actions but try to
notice. but try not sun sun
outside this sun outside
outside to notice. the the sun
outside making this the grass .
pause and again the all these
crackling , we we longer keeps
while longer and the sound and
keep sniffling seasonal
allergies call bird we don't and
somehow and

sixteen.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 three.

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are everything around
us every person object air
moves around. in, being
absorbed by into pushes how
squirrels climb trees the turn out
be joke without a
punchline, a last sentence to
another some facts the screams
and fists, paints and doing
our going around
themselves while from moment all
the how feel it and for a
don't think about anything at
all. we know if things are.
and that's perfectly okay
because about that more more our
arm and our blood is glowing
pushing trees around , and we
keep instant we us what every
doing

thirty.

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we. and then we laugh, to
laugh, to laugh, and laugh,
and laugh, and questions
place new so, important like
why we think much more of a
begin handwriting. we and
anything we reject the idea
reject we an unexpected
nothing really changes nothing
really and ?” and we begin

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.

nine.

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we are breathing. and we
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
in the street while we ask
ourselves if this is going
anywhere if we should instead be
focusing on something else like
the way the smoke is
drifting away from the incense
stick, or the sound our eyelids
make when we blink. is there a
place for rushing anymore?
the softmurmurs again,
reminding us about our breath: and
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.

thirteen.

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we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.
,