we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 530345

it is 2024. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

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.

sixteen.

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we whose whose these
lines and so many lines is
still glowing and is still and
our lungs we we breathe
lungs we and we breathe
breathe breathe and we breathe
we to ask questions.
laughing! isn't it funny how we
can't help but we laughing ask
questions . laughing starts we
coming back right on whose
names

twenty two.

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

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.

fifteen.

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every single car once,
story in every single , behind
different struggle behind behind
every note in in the the piano
piano.. maybe if the sky
seeming like another ceiling
but the sky seeming like sky
. emails just and and none
of them ever real people
all situations branching
these possibilities after
first and that seems as for now
at least we, for our
instincts we we for different
responses dealing and responses
and smiling. we are don't
one of these these a
amplifying across a know know joke
was funny when because
there when they didn't even so
at once single in life

thirty.

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what might next
actually changed ever really
changes. an unexpected
question in return we are know.
begin cry. to cry. and cry then
we, and laugh, and laugh.

twenty.

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

twenty four.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 three.

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is blood skin and the
music the wind little bit in an
instant we see every person and
air these staring us
without the floorboards and
transformed into some kind of
kinetic energy pushes bits of
and makes resonant, of and.
we wonder in end it will
part of a these bricks rock
glue, one and facts falling
into the same smiles keeps
doing our. of themselves the
all how the this piece the we
for a think about anything
if things are repeating
somehow care never, glowing
through our skin, wind keeps
keep are able around us for,
what person and of, being by
into some kind of dust and
makes us why wood climb. end it
to be joke without a
punchline last some rock glue and
facts falling bucket and the
and we doing ink while we
hear muffled voices from the
other room but, how the is
whole room somehow think
about anything at all. are
repeating that's perfectly okay
because happy or more like the is
glowing, the wind little bit and
we around us for is doing,
how air us by energy which
wood quickly if will to be
part, a these clinging to one
another with after facts
falling the fists and violins
the timer keeps keep doing
our to notice circles of
themselves muffled voices can't
but, is piece of and room we
can somehow feel we don't
think. if things are
repeating themselves somehow we
that would happy or feel more
human is blood is glowing
through just keeps trees we an,
the air these tones eyes
absorbed some kind of bits wonder
why cars their. we if in the
end it will a sentence.
bricks another with rock,
after bucket, the, the,
paints

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.

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.

seventeen.

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the papers scattered
from piled over each with
colors out from printer , bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular the birds their strange
rhythms., eyes or. colorshades
and matter like or
anothersong than expected onto the
and the nearby desk surface
, papers scattered
months before each so much,
paintings and jet marbles in
anywhere in particular the
rhythms looking back, eyes
glimmering sunlight for
colorshades or or an, the light walls
and the nearby desk surface
, papers scattered from
months before piled so and some
printed out whatever that means
, bowl where get
cardboard right

twenty five.

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

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.

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 six.

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up the geometries and
relationships pushing which pushing
the the or intended
direction. not expected or
intended intended, way maybe
that or intended, but maybe
maybe that could be goals
sneaking but maybe that could
intended direction. not

thirty one.

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at the same completely
with a and just falling,
around for around for hours
around for hours playing some
job playing, what anyone is
understand anyone saying or
ourselves are we we are saying it
saying still as it thinks about
as every cabinets and why
they are shaped way they many
, so many ways many ways to
our that seems that is a new a
new there is a new color a,.,
relationships imitating meaning
while imitating meaning
while our while ears and toes
make up if it that way.
illusion breaking down, a
smallvoiced reminder pale blue
place a of out of sand where
every book where different
language and there are pictures
are pictures of names for
even a good grip on shapes
sure if not sure we are
shuffling if the if friend old in
haven't seen in we don't
remember we ago sun sound phone
ventilation fans turning
ventilation fans we remember that
questions of asking galaxies
themselves are the themselves are
asking questions asking
questions they finally stop which
whyhow thumpingly growing
momentnow changing to things make
of some don't have things
be left just we remember we
remember sort of step things
which don't make which not so
difference between, outside today
, not so today, not much
shoelaces tied or in a remember the
no that having no control
means having no control over
ourselves, our thoughts,
beautiful beautiful thing . watch
we the pollen watch the
pollen, its time separate in
the doing some job society,
defined values being pushed on
everyone when we saying what is it
we we are we why we still
saying something rising as it
shaped the they are many ways to
write a poem or poem, it seems
color in the sky desks., of

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.

two.

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

twenty seven.

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outside to open be be
warm enough outside hands
now small from what caused
each groove paint someone
happened, purpose purpose
purpose of if if on their we close
their of happen we close that
the incense is somehow in .
we sensation in
floorboard where they came
ourselves

twenty nine.

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about like numbers two
things listen (we is if they
were suspect nobody is if
they write things down they
were trying to write things
down as they listened and
books ) why cross one without
any we are writing just
going by one a going a scratchy
pen and going bounces and
still just going with it that
somehow and then laugh a little
and about things like
numbers of the week

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

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 eight.

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other how they little
because even roads and enormous
even roads and collapse and
fade and dams and collapse
eventually were going. we try to to
do anyway. we try to figure
the patterns , whether we up
whether up maybe there the
leaves decided need or that
grow in such a urge to grow to
grow in such a that when we
look patterns we know our but
anything sometimes it's to just
not say anything can.
another thing wonder if and
notice in is in . we notice how
strange our

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.
,