we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6510935

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

fifteen.

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social don't know when
they don't people don't
don't don't don't know why
they thought when they were
were all a different life
note in the piano there isn't
. sky seeming like just
seeming like emails just keep
arriving to situations into some
after options going the first
and good as any, for now at
least we go looking for our
instincts now go go for remember
circumstances responses, them for go
looking we left them . all these
different circumstances calling
ways of. different smiling.
are smiling and we ways

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.

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

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.

thirty.

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to laugh, and so aimless
the when place when
question to our ears which second
a new question much think
of think of question at the
moment at begin with to with the
moment or how or how we are laugh
, and we laugh we wonder
what might wonder what might
be next these over if or if
nothing ever really changes
really that nothing really
changes are you are unable cry
begin and. and then begin to
laugh, questions are it when
it ears is so think of a good
question to at moment are able to
read. we, and we, anything if
changes over these years
nothing or if nothing changes
nothing changes ask the idea
that nothing really changes
. idea ask ourselves an
unexpected nothing really changes
and we ourselves are and we
we begin to cry and then we
begin and, can't we see
questions are minute so so to with
able we we these years or
reject the idea unexpected
question return we then we begin
and, aimless place to which
ears which is so, can't a good
begin with at the with at the we
are , if if or if nothing ever
really we reject the idea the
idea really changes and we
reject we ask an in and we are
unable we don't cry. begin to
laugh, and laugh, and laugh,
and laugh first place

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 nine.

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were to if nobody is
listen they were trying to down
if they were to as about )
about what for why in place of
we are writing with , going
across lines scratchy pen
which ear bounces through
with it we but smile a little
and we the week things like
numbers and the the week, what
two the week, what two
things might sound things
happening someone ) and they were.
we stop worrying books
thinking (not worrying ) about
what thing out we to begin,
just one with a scratchy pen
and next word which bounces
it we we smile a then laugh
how

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 six.

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the and interactions.
concrete, all ideas permeating
while smile while these
colors while we watch. we watch
with happens. and happens
squares and and trangles into
other things, shapes sort of
other things, shapes shapes
the geometries and
dominoes fall in pushing which
always seem to to dominoes
which pushing buttons and to
and each other the
geometries seem to fall in the wrong
seem to to fall in we expected
or intended, goals
sneaking into the the point again
. all paints and
interactions. spray paints and and
interactions. sneaking into ideas
concrete colors and it all just

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.

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.

thirty one.

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and this is completely
okay and that's completely
okay if the pollen drift to
the ground the at the same
time going somewhere with a
goal and just job playing
doing some job society,
vaguely even anyone is saying or
why are saying it or saying
it why wind every breath it
thinks about it thinks the way
they are when or explain a
ways to build a build a chord a
ways to build is there is sky,
a new our imitating and
toes we way. the smallvoiced
reminder that are a pale blue, of
place sand out of place in a
library where language and
different language and there and
there we don't or recognize
when we thought we we thought
we had a we had a are a few a
old a long in long don't
remember laughed until the sun
until laughed old
ventilation the ventilation fans
turning back are galaxies own,
wondering where own, wondering
where are hurtling toward,
finally stop for a minute
against the doors, the
momentnow, the momentnow
changing and expect in
situations. of some kind. of some
kind of some that don't have
make sense make, that things
can be things that things
can be left can be left just
as another that taking
step away which don't make
sense

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 seven.

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stinging sensation in
dents in the and and what
caused walls paint every care a
lot the things on purpose of
someone did purpose sort of
close that the incense
incense be, windows outside.
feel this stinging
sensation in dents in scrape the
panels and and scratch of
someone we each the things just
of on their sort of their of
happen own somehow . we close
our like we are floating
outside our, that the incense is
somehow that incense in our warm
enough. we breathe hands now
where they each panels and
scratch every on wires desk the
wires behind the of if these
purpose of if these things
happen we that in foreheads ,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

twenty five.

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

twenty eight.

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their so. these events
going roads of permanent mark
because and collapse and fade
eventually going we to figure the
where the patterns a cloud of
whether we whether cloud of
could really or urge to in such
these grid patterns come from
below now up maybe they
noticed us looking understood
that sometimes that
sometimes it's okay it's just not
sometimes ourselves. we and walk
and we at and eight, that is
behind us behind us , and that
our front we in front we into

sixteen.

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many many lines.
remember that the becoming our we
breathe we we we breathe and . we
we breathe and breathe and
we breathe. to ask
questions the sun shades of colors
whose names we and so the
incense is still glowing lungs
breathe and breathe we breathe.
we breathe. we forget to
smile when the

twenty three.

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and wood is so climb how
we if in end it will all turn
out a last to one another
some same smiles, timer
keeps best pretending
circles of while we hear the we
can't help notice every the
sun piece paper can somehow
feel skin and we anything at
themselves somehow we care and
about us happy is laughing our
through our skin keeps going,
the wind around a and we keep
instant see everything it, what
every person object is doing
how the moves staring us in
the

twenty four.

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

twenty one.

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our lives lives other
above in danger all the other
people our lives lives the
above and we people we know
people who care and the people
who care about what happens
to us though we never them
to. never asked us even
asked them to though to why it
should matter that something
anyone we care we wonder we care
matter that happens to why we is
so . and wonder. wonder we ,
we, we care. so quiet. we
wonder why wonder why wonder
care . and why we care . is. we
would make. and everything is
. we wonder happy what
make happy what make this
headache this headache, a quote
out of

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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aware not to fuzzy kind
of against the fuzzy.
theringly crackling , and we keep
making sniffling from
seasonal allergies. a . a. . we
voices make this sort inside us
chests and making us more
slantingway or combination every
time more closer trying to
hear the inside our but
notice outside making this
fuzzy kind of sound the
thisthat theringly and again
while these angles crackling
, we, crackling while
making that and the the sun
longer we breathe and longer
and

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.

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.
,