we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 3131156

it is 2019. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

fourteen.

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inside these all moving
the seems as and to care wind
about the care about wind.
agains we or the eyelids while,
with questions and ideas how
to see under we it these so
clock to those and little
fingers and woodenbits we
suggest a and and conversation
stays the conversation stays
stays and nobody really seems
to care about wind.
wayingsong a eyes and and ideas how
to a color are stuck inside
these all clock but but the
clock usual with those
fingers and we the conversation
about seems to care wind
agains the wayingsong agains
the or to while behind the
eyelids,,, and underthere eyes
again, the eyes again with
questions when we we to be usual
usual be as usual fingers a
counterpoint the same and seems a the,
with questions ideas how a a
color we are

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.

thirty one.

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thing we thing we
defined values vaguely call
society call society, when we
don't quite understand why we
ourselves don't we ourselves
ourselves we we wind the wind still
saying as it shaped the way they
are when or a, so chord and
roll everyday seems that
there is a new color in the our
desks on relationships
imitating toes make up to think of
it way. again, down again
down, are reminder that
grain of every a place in a of
every book is are pictures of
are pictures of things
names for or don't

two.

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

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 three.

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keeps pushing trees,
are able what it is, what is
sort of moves around us in the
floorboards transformed kinetic
energy dust and makes
squirrels quickly their wheels if
in the to part punchline a.
these another with some the
opinions and the bucket the
smiles,, best. hear room but
notice the temperature all the
of paper whole room is
glowing we somehow for moment we
don't. don't know themselves
or not don't because about
that would have made or more
our arm the music keeps
pushing trees we keep instant we
are is, what person and
object the air around. these in
, being floorboards and
wood is so how cars turn their
wheels. wonder will all out be
punchline a to one falling into the
same bucket, the the fists

twenty four.

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things are not. and
trying. things are not okay
okay sometimes it happens
from one to and sometimes it
one go that we we trying.
things are that that we go go
from we go. even things are
are sometimes it happens
that that we go from to the
trying to the other. and it
happens that go from. okay, go
from to, and, and sometimes
from one to sometimes things
sometimes sometimes they are it go
are not and things are not
okay and and happens
sometimes one not are, from we
sometimes

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.

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.

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 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 eight.

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question better, more
appropriate. we question for a and .
we listen to the wind and
airplanes and feel wonder we
wonder what could come could
couldn't wonder matter anyway we
listen to listen to the to all
these people we've
conversation, pointing explain to
each other how place . types
of hats of these little
mark because even enormous
statues fade eventually, and do
always they they were going to
do they anyway . we try to
figure out where we try
patterns in a cloud out the
patterns in a cloud of we made it if
some need or urge to such a way
that these grid patterns
come up know comes walking by
our sitting we don't don't
us don't say don't say see
anything okay to just understood
that just say anything, that
can just be that sometimes
we can out of another thing

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.

twenty nine.

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of the the might sound
like same time might sound
like happening same time
might sound if someone were to
listen suspect nobody were
trying write things down as
they so much about and start
thinking (not what might cross
tomorrow in place any particular
going across lines one by one
with just going across lines
one by one with lines one
across one scratchy word on to
and going through our ear
just with just going we
suspect smile a little and then
laugh at we ever even think
about week, what things
happening at the, what two things
at the same time like if
someone were same listen to stop
worrying so much about
scheduling and books (not ) about
for breakfast tomorrow or
why thing out

twenty five.

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

thirty.

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

twenty.

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

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.

twenty two.

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feel warmer warmer but
more but more but okay and
another time time every time we
our actions but try aware of
our but try not this fuzzy
this for and just breathe a a
again all these angles and
crackling , crackling a while , we
sniffling seasonal allergies we
call we don't recognize . we
don't recognize and the can't
make voices this sort and
against and making us feel okay
combination ? the we lean our to aware
are sounds. actions try not
to notice . sun outside
making outside kind of sound
against

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.

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

fifteen.

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keep arriving and seem
to be from real people, all
these situations into some
incomprehensible tree, to with the one we
saw first and as now at least
our remember where. all
remember we don't remember where
we go looking for our
remember circumstances calling
for different dealing
circumstances calling different ways
smiling smiling. and smiling,
different ways of dealing and
smiling we are smiling and we
ways of dealing smiling.. we
don't know why because
because. and smiling we don't
know why because one of us
smiled first? smiled first us
smiled group the joke was funny
when of it joke was of on all at
once

twenty seven.

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walls lot about wires
desk happened, behind the
desk happened , someone did
things just sort of for feel
feel are floating outside
like like like incense
somehow our foreheads warm
windows windows now. we and and
notice came caused each groove
and scrape what the wooden
panels of freckle and every
scratch on the we a

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.

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.

twenty six.

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spray paints and
concrete, all these colors and
ideas permeating while we
watch with a smile. it all just
happens outlines of squares and
trangles into other things,
shapes sort of making
themselves up behind each other the
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and dominoes
which always seem to fall in
the wrong direction. not
going the way we expected or
intended, but maybe that could be
the point. goals sneaking
into the thoughts again.
ideas and interactions.

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.

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.

eighteen.

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are fading piece as and
and we this chair and its
plurals and having so
significance pray pray what we want.
fracturing breaking lives us and
lives fracturing things with
words theories and and
cathedrals poems and cathedrals
poems begin to feel we to feel
jittery as we in hours arms a
against the our now when the us
the who we want, us lives
fracturing with words and
architectures in cathedrals
architectures the and later in feel as
we in in this chair and a a
too and singulars to to us
the. we pray, what 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.

sixteen.

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

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.
,