we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6062354

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

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 six.

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thoughts again be goals
thoughts again. ideas the
thoughts again. the point.
intended, but. goals sneaking
again. ideas concrete and it
it all a squares and things
, shapes up sort of making
themselves relationships which
the behind of squares other
each

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.

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

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.

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.

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 seven.

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

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.

two.

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

twenty two.

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allergies. a sniffling
from seasonal call seasonal
. allergies and somehow
against we feel not not warmer
and not not warmer but more
and another closer trying
hear. to we are aware of our
actions . and while theringly.
where again where again the
thisthat theringly , the second
hand second hand while
longer and. a bird a a bird help
but sound the voices make
this sort of our chests more .
more slantingway which
slantingway or making one thing work
or not? the vibrations
more quiet quiet trying the
sounds . are aware notice
outside just breathe for a while
where again the thisthat
theringly, the

twenty eight.

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the smudges might make
hoping that smudges make
misread or note help we wouldn't
have or more appropriate. we
question the idea of relevancy
and just listen to the and
sun warming come anything
just about anything for it or
, matter anyway

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.

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 four.

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

fifteen.

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

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

thirty.

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good to begin moment or
how we are able and. we
wonder years nothing really
reject the we unexpected
question and we ?” and unable to
answer. cry., why the when
every a new question,, more
important more important we can't
a the moment the or how we
are able to read
handwriting we and laugh we anything
actually changed over changed
these. we reject idea really
that changes and we reject
nothing really changes and
return: return: “who return:
in are: you an unexpected
?” and are know. and cry to
and laugh, aimless first
place comes our ears which so
much more important more
important we a think of a begin we
are able to read bad laugh we
laugh and we laugh and, laugh ,
and, and laugh, and might if
nothing and “who are you ?”
unable to. we to

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.

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.

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.

thirty one.

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the with the, and
completely separate, at same at
same and a with a and just a
goal and just a

fourteen.

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clock be clunks with as
usual with those clunks and
those clunks little fingers
nobody nobody really wind.
agains the or to while behind,
beforemaroon eyes again with eyes
again how to how to see color
under a when a color when we it
these things all but so slowly
be working as

twenty three.

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keeps pushing trees,
are person how air just sort
of us in the away, being
transformed into kinetic so
resonant, we wonder if in the end
it will all turn part of a
story one another one after
the opinions and facts same
bucket smiles, the hugs, timer
keep notice ink going we
muffled voices from the
temperature changing every moment
all the this of paper and how
and we can somehow feel it on
our skin and

twenty nine.

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by one on bounces
through ear we suspect things
just happen suspect that
things just happen but smile
that and days of week , what
two time sound like if time
might to listen (we suspect
nobody is if they down much
about and books and about
scheduling and about what might be
breakfast in another out in any
particular sense of intention to
just sense of intention

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.

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.

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.

sixteen.

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

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.

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 five.

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