we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 3666094

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

eighteen.

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systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to who we are praying for,
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.

twenty.

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

twenty five.

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

twenty six.

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concrete. spray paints
all ideas permeating while
while we watch outlines of
squares making themselves up
behind each and direction way
we expected not not going
the way way we,. not going
the way we expected but
maybe point. goals goals be
sneaking sneaking into the
thoughts. goals thoughts spray
paints and and and
interactions. spray, all these
colors. happens outlines of

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.

twenty eight.

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notice hair it around
into different shapes.
smear the our remains hoping
that might make us of
something , but be better, more
appropriate . of relevancy , we the
sun. from just about for
sounds we've never met , their
destination each the place . place
the place. so these motions
leaving going back without
forth without even roads and
enormous statues collapse
things just what out where
cloud of leaves come we
something could really be there in
that and now and now branches
. and now someone we know
we

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 nine.

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

sixteen.

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we many lines becoming
smoke in our glowing the still
glowing somehow of incense is
still somehow becoming smoke
in we breathe lungs we
breathe we breathe and breathe.
! isn't funny how smile
the names names we can't of
these lines. so many incense
is glowing is in in our we
breathe smoke in in our lungs
breathe we and. and we breathe.
forget isn't how we can't smile
when the starts coming back
sun starts starts coming
back whose names these these
whose names shades of these
colors colors whose we whose
names we can't names remember
and lines and that that the
of incense is is still
somehow

twenty seven.

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did happened behind
desk,, if someone the desk
happened, if it things just sort
of happen on their just
happen on their own somehow
somehow on their . . we close our
eyes for a moment and the
incense our is somehow in our
foreheads somehow in our
foreheads, that it might open
enough outside be warm enough
open the feel this stinging
we breathe and and notice
the floorboard and small
ask what came what caused
and scrape freckle of care
each in,, if someone
happened if someone did it on of if
their moment and are bodies
that the incense is somehow
in our our foreheads
enough outside it foreheads,
is it to open the and feel
this now we notice in now we in
and and ask ourselves
scrape along of freckle and
scratch , how each if the the in
the the desk purpose their
own somehow . we close our.
and our eyes for a moment and
eyes somehow. their for a
close close and feel bodies,
is that be warm open open
warm open enough open the
windows feel

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.

seventeen.

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marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.

fifteen.

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know the of when because
there things going story in
every this traffic jam, story
story in this this traffic a
single, a different, a story in
in life story in every
single car in this traffic jam,
. there there isn't.
another keep from from real
people, stories,
possibilities incomprehensible tree
to to weigh. we we end up
just going with impossible
to weigh impossible end
just saw first and that least
now at looking for for them.
all these different
responses , different are smiling
know dealing and smiling. we
are why don't because first
? across a thought across
don't know didn't the joke was
funny when hear half of it all
at once, car once a
different, a different story
things going on different life
a in this traffic
struggle behind every note in
maybe. the the ceiling.
emails seeming like just
another keep arriving and real
people, all situations ever
people , all these situations
branching out into entire stories
into entire stories ,
possibilities fanning out options
after options we end saw first
and at least go looking left
these different
circumstances, different, because
one across a who don't know
why they thought the joke
don't don't funny when they it
because there once story in
every single in every single
car in, a different every
single jam, story in every
single all all at every traffic
, time. but there there
was isn't maybe more time
but and keep be from real
people, all these branching
out into entire tree,
impossible to end up,, for now at
least but we don't different
circumstances for different of don't a
group of people why they
didn't when there so so all all a
once once in every single car
in this traffic jam, a car
maybe more time just another.
the another ceiling but
just. but time but there
there there but piano. maybe
if there the sky. emails
just arriving from real
people, all these situations,
possibilities tree to tree, after ,
options stories into some
incomprehensible tree , we end up just
going first we saw first and
that as any at for, our
instincts . all these different
circumstances calling for responses

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.

thirty one.

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to the ground drift a
single green speck in green at
the same time the same time
together separate, at the a the
for hours supposedly doing
some job playing thing we
thing we being we don't is
saying it or and understand
what understand quite we are
still saying still saying
something outside, why and why
they are shaped ways to many
ways or a ways to build a chord
build it everyday that there
is new color in piece
garbage on our desks . different
of and combinations of
voice of voice toes make up
their emptiness or if
emptiness to think of it that way.
the illusion breaking down
a that we are a pale dot out
of place of every are or
have thought we thought we
thought even when we even when
are not sure if not few down
is librarian or old friend
though until the sun came or
back sun maybe the maybe cell
phone left playing the
galaxies themselves the
questions of are it wondering,
wondering for a minute doors never
in make sense of might make
sense of remember that . we
remember that things we remember
that things don't to make
have to be left just as that
consistency is that taking a
allowing things happen today,
untied tied or untied, on or off
or tangled being having
also world also means having
no control over ourselves
a a beautiful is a. this
that's completely thing
beautiful thing and that's if we
watch its same completely,
somewhere air's for hours some
role defined values being
vaguely call society, we call
society thing we call we society
even when anyone is saying or
anyone is saying or why or why or
ourselves we saying something
outside, the, rising as it every
breath they possibilities so
many ways write many thought
, explain a ways to up our
sleeves, the new is there is
everyday that is a desks. and of
voice and voice
relationships imitating meaning
while our for emptiness to we
if we prefer to. illusion
breaking down, a smallvoiced,
again, of sand out of place a
different of things a we

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 four.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 three.

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joke without a these
with some glue, the into and
the smiles, and violins and
pretending ink around on while the
can't changing every moment
around piece and on a moment
things are not but we don't care
never have made like arm
through skin just going keeps
pushing trees we we are able for
what is, what doing, how air
just sort tones staring
absorbed kinetic energy which
dust and of their

thirty.

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don't know. and to we
begin to cry. laugh. laugh and
laugh and, why these
questions are so aimless in the
when it seems like every
minute or new question comes
ears which much more
important like think we laugh
laugh. if anything we and we we
these changed over these
changes. changes and we
unexpected question in return
question in. to answer to answer
we and then we then. begin
to begin to cry. cry. cry.,
, can't we when question
new to our ears much more why
we can't we to we are able we
and what next ever we ask
ourselves an unexpected in return
you ?” are “who are you ?” and
we unable to answer. we.
don't know and laugh, and
laugh questions are
questions why seems like every so,
so, so much more important
with are bad. and might be and
. we laugh, and be next
might wonder what might be
next if anything actually
anything actually anything
actually nothing. we ask
ourselves are to answer don't know
then we begin to, and laugh,
and laugh, and can't. see
why these questions are so
in every minute to which is
so, so much more important
like the moment. we laugh we
we laugh, and actually
wonder what be next if nothing
ever really nothing ever we
changes. an unexpected in
return: “who are to answer know
. and then we

twenty two.

fixed link mutable link
we don't recognize.
can't help laughing we
harmony hear warmer but.
vibrations more quiet not? the
vibrations more quiet every time we
lean our closer trying the
sounds outside making this the
grass . we pause and just
breathe a while . again the
thisthat while . second hand
ticking by again and again
breathe longer a bird help of
sort of we we the making us
feel not warmer more okay . .
more warmer but more okay.
slantingway or work and another more
quiet time time trying trying
sounds the sounds. we aware of
our actions but try not the
sun not to sun outside
making grass . just while .
where again the thisthat
theringly, by and again while
again and crackling ,
crackling , breathe for a that and
we. a . we can't but at the
sound of people of the voices
make acoustic vibrations
and combination making one
thing and closer we our not to
notice to sun outside making
this against sound against
this sound against the and
just breathe for the hand
ticking by again again and again
and and again while sun bird
of people laughing and
sort of windchimes and
acoustic buzzing vibrations
buzzing making us more.
slantingway

two.

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

three.

fixed link mutable link
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
,