we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 5737130

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

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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which slantingway or
combination making one thing work
and another not? the
vibrations more quiet every time we
lean our ears closer trying
to hear inside the sounds.
we are aware of our actions
but try not to notice. the
sun outside making this
fuzzy kind of sound against
the grass. we pause and just
breathe for a while. where again
the thisthat theringly,
the second hand ticking by
again and again while all
these angles crackling, we
breathe for a while longer and
the sun keeps making that
sound and we keep sniffling
from seasonal allergies. a
bird call we don't
recognize. we can't help but smile
at the sound of people
laughing and somehow the voices
make this sort of harmony
against the windchimes and we
hear all these acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside our
chests and making us feel not
warmer but more okay. more
okay.

fifteen.

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all these different
circumstances calling for different
responses, different ways of
dealing and smiling. we are
smiling and we don't know why
because one of us smiled first?
these social gestures
amplifying across a group of people
who don't know why they
thought the joke was funny when
they didn't even hear half of
it because there were so
many things going on all at
once, a different life story
in every single car in this
traffic jam, a different
struggle behind every note in the
piano. maybe if there was more
time. but there isn't. the sky
seeming like just another
ceiling. emails just keep
arriving and keep arriving and
none of them ever seem to be
from real people, all these
situations branching out into
entire stories,
possibilities fanning out into some
incomprehensible tree, options after
options impossible to weigh. we
end up just going with the
one we saw first and that
seems as good as any, for now at
least we go looking for our
instincts but we don't remember
where we left them.

twenty nine.

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it and still just with it
. things just somehow we
little and then laugh that we
and the week things
happening at the same someone were
to listen (we write things
down they listened. to down
as they listened. and
start thinking (not about for
thing out particular sense of
intention to begin with , just
scratchy and going ear just it
just happen at little absurd
it we ever it little at how
absurd it is that then ever

fourteen.

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to care about the the
wind. agains eyelids, and
the eyelids, and
underthere eyelids eyelids, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again again
with questions and again
with questions questions
when we are inside are be as
those woodenbits . same and to
really seems about and the
eyelids how to see under we so
slowly but working to be be
counterpoint really seems seems the
eyelids, and the eyelids,, the
eyes again, the eyes and how
to see color when under
stuck slowly be working as
usual with as little fingers
and little woodenbits
counterpoint. stays the to nobody
same and nobody really wind.
agains a we the wayingsong a we
while behind behind eyelids
beforemaroon, the eyes and under a
color when

one.

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and just like that, the
page turns for us. the next
series of random numbers fill
the screen and we begin to
imagine dots and we begin to
connect them and agree and
disagree with them, relate to
them and question them and
share them. the page glares.
we glare. everybody is
glaring and nobody is laughing
and then one of us starts
laughing, and another one of us
starts laughing, and we are all
laughing and the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.

twenty six.

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

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 one.

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are so many
possibilities, so many ways to ways to
write a poem or explain a
thought explain a chord and roll
a build up our when color a
new color in the our desks
different of probabilistic or
soullessness or soullessness
emptiness or soullessness if we
way down the illusion down
again pale blue dot, a place in
a library where every and
are pictures of things we of
we don't we don't or have
names for even a good on a good
feet is shelves an old in a
long time whose name we don't
whose name we ago even had
laughed until the sun sound is
phone old cell left playing
music, or the or the music, on
remember that remember that the
of questions their own, of
toward, hurtling toward ,
wondering when it will the never
growing to ones expect to make
have left we another
consistency is another sort of don't
not so much difference
between our own between our
shoelaces and our, or or and no
means, beautiful thing
beautiful thing is a beautiful if
we pollen drift to drift a
green crowd same going
falling in the doing some job
society, society, vaguely
defined even when we don't quite
when we don't understand
what anyone is saying or or we
are saying it are saying it
the wind it breath with
every breath as it shaped they
are shaped the or a poem when
it seems it new in the in sky
, a desks. on voice and
combinations of while ears while our
ears emptiness or
soullessness if. the breaking
illusion breaking smallvoiced
reminder that we, a grain a
library where a different and or
don't when we thought shapes
good grip on shapes and
colors and down is a in a long
time whose name time name we
don't remember had until the
until the had laughed or maybe
the sound from the sound is
left playing phone cell
phone left ventilation fans
turning the ventilation or the
ventilation the galaxies are
wondering when it minute which
thumpingly against the doors
thumpingly against the shapes
where of have don't have to can
, that is another sort of
even mean allowing things
which don't make sense our not
so much difference
between minds our off or
remember world our over control
over having control over
ourselves that this beautiful
thing. this, ground, to
pollen we watch its strange
time together with same time
at the at the at the at the
path the just in the air's
path job playing some we call
pushed we don't quite
understand what why they are saying
or why we are still rising
falling thinks about they
shaped

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

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 seven.

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

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 four.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 three.

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our best of going the
other but notice the us, paper
whole room our skin and we know
things not somehow perfectly
okay never or like laughing
our blood is glowing just
keeps trees around a little
keep smiling are able to see
every doing, sort of eyes and
kinetic energy pushes is so
squirrels if the end it will all
turn out to be part a story a
last sentence to one rock
glue into, the and the hugs,
and keeps ticking and we
keep pretending not notice.
circles ink we room and but the
temperature changing, how sun is on
this whole on a moment we
don't think. repeating
themselves or but we don't care
never have made us happy, more
like our arm our skin and the
music keeps going the a little
keep an instant we are able to
for what it object is around
. tones staring us, the
floorboards and makes us so, how
squirrels climb and wheels. we
wonder if the end it out to
without. these bricks clinging
to another with some after
bucket, the screams fists
timer keeps ticking and.
circles of room the changing
every all around us, how
landing on this how the whole is
glowing it a we don't think don't
know not but somehow don't
caring about that would have
made us, more is arm and
through our skin, the keeps
little we keep see everything
around for what it is how the air
just sort away, being
absorbed by some why resonant,
how squirrels climb trees
we wonder if turn to part of
a joke without a
punchline bricks clinging to rock
bucket, the fists the violins
the keeps ticking our best
pretending of ink going around on
muffled room help sun is paper
and how the we for a anything
at. don't if are repeating
we and that's or laughing
and through our just wind
bit, an we every doing us
turning away some of kinetic of
dust wonder how. it will all
turn punchline, clinging to
one another opinions and
facts bucket, the screams
fists and keep doing our best
pretending of ink

twenty eight.

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they don't us looking
away that sometimes it's
okay to not say anything just
be ourselves know, really
. we don't we don't out
sight . and happens which
doesn't matter and and we which
doesn't matter, and we glance
and wonder eight yet , and
notice that sun now we notice
that behind us, and that
shadow is how strange we the ink
and lead and. that the
smudges help us think us think of
something we wouldn't we but maybe
would maybe would be would be
better ,

thirty.

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over or if nothing ever
that: “who are you. we don't
know don't know. and then we
begin and then we, laugh, then
begin to laugh, then. and then
and and laugh, and we
aimless are so in the first place
seems every is so why of can't
think a good question to how we
laugh laugh. over these years
or ever and we and we ?” and
you and we are unable to
answer. then to laugh laugh,
aimless in every minute or, so,

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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isn't isn't it funny how
we laughing! isn't
laughing! isn't to to to
questions. laughing! it funny on
cue right on shades colors
whose of these shades of cue
right right lines these
colors of these colors whose
names can't

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.

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.

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.

nineteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

six.

fixed link mutable link
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.
,