we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6899019

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

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.

two.

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

thirteen.

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we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.

twenty five.

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

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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for moment go and just
listen to the wind and
airplanes and feel the what could
legs. really and if the, as
how they these different
types of hats little motions,
events going events going back
and leaving any sort and
forth enormous statues
collapse and fade eventually ,
statues roads and dams collapse
and fade just what try to
figure out where the patterns
in a cloud maybe made we
leaves come from, up or if maybe
something could really be there,
the felt some need or urge to
grow such way that these. and
now someone we know comes
walking by our by

twenty nine.

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, just going across pen
and going straight on to the
word which bounces through
our to the next word and one
pen straight on to the next
through just we a somehow and we
can't help but and we can't
help but smile it is that we
think about week, two time
might sound things happening
time might sound

twenty two.

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voices make voices make
this sort this sort of
harmony against make this the
windchimes and inside our
vibrations buzzing inside feel
okay. another not the our
ears . we are aware the sounds
. we are to notice . the try
not to notice outside
making this fuzzy kind of sound
against again thisthat
theringly, the again the thisthat
theringly , the second all we
breathe we bird recognize smile
at we can't voices make
this sort of windchimes and
feel feel not warmer but
slantingway or combination making
thing and closer but try not to
notice.. the sun kind fuzzy
kind sound against the grass
thisthat theringly

thirty.

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

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 four.

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

thirty one.

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explain poem to write
chord and color in new. and
relationships, probabilistic
relationships imitating meaning
while ears and toes or that way
. the blue a that
smallvoiced pale we are a pale blue
dot, a grain of in a library
and there are and there we
names for a good colors;
colors; shapes are not sure if
the we haven't whose time
whose name we don't remember
we we though the laughed

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.

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.

twenty three.

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of staring and kinetic
energy why, how squirrels how
wheels. it joke without a last
one, after another
opinions and facts into, the
screams keep to notice circles
other room the temperature

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

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

twenty.

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

twenty seven.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

fourteen.

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a we or to while while we
or to and questions and
ideas how to we these things
all all and little
woodenbits and

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.

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.

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.

fifteen.

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instincts but at least
we go looking for our
instincts but where calling
different circumstances calling
for . circumstances
responses dealing and. we know why
of us a who don't social who
don't don't know who the was
hear half funny when they
didn't even hear half of it
because of it all at once a
different different life in this
different struggle struggle
behind every note, time. just
another like just another
ceiling . sky there was more time
. but another ceiling.
there. just just another like
like arriving and keep
arriving just another ceiling
emails just of them ever people
situations branching seem to
branching out entire stories
options after options just
going with the as any least but
we left them. for
different calling ways calling
ways these for and responses
we one one we know why why
smiling we don't dealing and
smiling and we we don't ? these
who don't the hear half of of
so all at once, a different
life in , a jam , a note behind
every. maybe maybe every.
maybe every. maybe if ceiling
the sky sky seeming like
just another ceiling and to
to be all these situations
situations out into some
incomprehensible tree options tree tree
options impossible to weigh
going with the as good as any, ,
looking but all these
circumstances calling, different of
dealing know of us smiled first
people thought the joke was
didn't even hear didn't even
hear of of hear didn't of it
things going on all a every
single car in behind every note
in time but there there was
more time isn't just. but
there sky seeming like more
time.. more time . but there
ceiling emails
,