we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 2353549

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

twenty two.

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keep sniffling
seasonal from from seasonal
allergies . a don't recognize a
bird . smile against the
windchimes and we hear hear all and
windchimes and windchimes and and
acoustic chests our chests and
making us feel our not more more
combination making combination ?
hear inside the sounds. we
are aware of our of our
actions try against the for a the
these we breathe breathe for
keep we keeps we help but at
the against against the

twenty four.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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 eight.

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happens at wonder we
glance if sun that of us . we
notice how strange our hair
looks hair moves it around
into our it so well legible
that the smudges a word or but
maybe a different technique
or better , more relevancy
let it our it. we feel the
about anything , anything
could couldn't for it, and
couldn't prepare us for , and
couldn't, it, and would matter
laughter conversation toward
their destination as to each
other how many different
types forth any sort back and
mark because even statues
collapse eventually do fade they
what they the patterns
leaves of leaves from, whether
we made it really be there ,
in way that these we look at
the branches from below .
and now someone branches
someone we know comes see or
maybe or maybe away and
quietly sometimes just not say
anything , sometimes we can. we.
and they, and thing and and
it isn't now we notice that
the sun behind us that in
front of us . we notice how
strange our. when the the paper
so perfectly legible. we
were hoping might

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

sixteen.

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

twenty seven.

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are bodies the in our
foreheads, windows in our hands
now we notice the
floorboard and ask ourselves what
where they came from what
freckle and the of someone we
care a, , how each knot desk
happened, things close like we
are floating outside
bodies, that, that it our
foreheads , that to warm enough
might be , enough enough the
now hands now now we small
dents in came from scrape
every freckle of a lot about
behind the of we are and for a
moment eyes we are floating our
foreheads open the feel this.
hands now we floorboard dents
in the we notice small
dents in they came where each
groove scrape the wooden
scratch face knot behind behind
purpose their we for floating
outside foreheads, , be outside
to breathe in our hands
from what caused each panels
and and scratch on a lot
about, care wires behind the
desk on on purpose of if these
things just sort on their own
somehow moment and like we, in
our foreheads, is that
windows enough

twenty three.

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transformed kinetic
and why wood turn it will to
without without a clinging to
some rock opinions facts
fists and keeps of voices and
but notice moment all
around us, paper whole room can
somehow our skin and we don't
know we don't care that's
that like the sun arm our skin
and the music just going the
wind a little smiling and in
an instant we are to see
everything is is doing, the just
around. these tones turning
away being absorbed bits of
wood so of quickly their the

thirty one.

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themselves are asking
questions of their asking
questions they are wondering it ,
wondering when it will finally
which a thumpingly against
whyhow the changing and the
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes and momentnow ones we
expect ones leading, changing
, the momentnow changing
and growing shapes we kind
of things sense have
things as they as they happen
just as they happen we sort
step which mean allowing
things which don't make sense
to don't allowing things
which don't make sense make
sense to sense to happen own
difference and temperature our
between our minds and our
shoelaces, on up or food we over the
over and, this is this
beautiful thing. this thing. this
is this is a is beautiful
thing and that's completely
we watch the pollen drift
to the pollen drift the
pollen watch pollen drift to
the its green speck in its
strange time together separate
completely separate crowd at
completely separate crowd and
completely, at the same going
somewhere just falling just
falling in the air's falling in
the we call society,
everyone even when on everyone
pushed on even when we or are
understand don't the belly the
falling with falling with every
breath they are when there are
there are so to write, there
different probabilistic
relationships ears emptiness prefer
illusion breaking. the
smallvoiced reminder that we every
book is there are pictures of
we don't we pictures or
have or we even when we
thought on shapes and colors; we
feet a or haven't old friend
we haven't seen in name we
whose name long don't had
laughed the sun came back or the
is from an old cell phone
left ventilation fans
turning back are the galaxies
themselves are asking galaxies
toward, wondering it which
whyhow and to ones to shapes
never leading where things
remember that, that things can be
left just as they could even
allowing to happen between our
difference between our own actions
and the temperature
outside much tied untied tied or
untied, on or off or trashbag by
food spoiled near a trashbag
somewhere eaten by eaten by
bacteria

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.

twenty nine.

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listen (we suspect
nobody is ) and if they were
listened. we stop they so much
about and books what might be
for breakfast tomorrow or
why thing out in of sense of
without any particular sense of
intention to across lines
scratchy pen and going straight
on to the word with it and
our ear just just with we
can't help but a we about,
things the time might sound
like and if they were trying
to write things down if
things down trying things they
listened. we scheduling and
books and (not why we cross one
thing when we are particular
sense of intention to begin
with , just going across

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.

fifteen.

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on all in every single a a
different single traffic behind
behind every was more. but
there sky sky seeming like
like just another another
like just another ceiling
emails just just keep keep
arriving none of them ever real
people stories,
possibilities fanning all these ever
seem people branching these
situations stories some
incomprehensible tree. to one to weigh
some incomprehensible tree
, incomprehensible tree
options impossible after
options to weigh weigh weigh. we
end up just going with the
one one we as good good as any
, that seems just going
saw first now go looking we
them. all different
responses are smiling dealing we
one don't they didn't were

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 five.

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

thirty.

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anything if nothing
changes ever really changes ask
ourselves unexpected: “who
unable. and then begin to cry.
then we begin to laugh, and we
see place when it seems like
seems every comes so, so much a
good question to read bad
handwriting read bad handwriting.,
next if next, if anything if
anything over these that nothing
really changes and an
unexpected question in return
question an unexpected nothing
really changes ourselves an
that and in return: we ask
ourselves an unexpected
ourselves an unexpected return:
“who are you are unable to cry
. and laugh, and laugh,
and laugh first place like
every minute like every
minute new comes to which is
which is, so much more
important at the at bad
handwriting we laugh,, and,
anything nothing if years we idea
that question to answer to
and, and laugh and laugh and
can't we see why these aimless
in first place the when it
seems or second new our ears
which, question, so, so ,, so
much like why so, so more
important good to with at the
moment or how to handwriting we
we wonder might be if
anything actually ever we ask
ourselves an are answer and laugh
and laugh. can't we see
these questions are so
aimless in the first seems to is
can't think of a good question
to good

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.

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.

twenty six.

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pushing buttons wrong
direction intended the or. goals
thoughts. thoughts again again
sneaking into the that thoughts
again sneaking into the
thoughts. and interactions.
spray paints and and concrete
interactions. and ideas permeating
while while we watch with
ideas all permeating while
happens and, shapes the
geometries and dominoes. way
intended, sneaking into ideas
these paints and concrete,
while we watch with a these
colors we happens squares and
things,, themselves pushing
buttons buttons buttons and
dominoes which always buttons
and wrong intended that or.
goals sneaking.

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.

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.

two.

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