we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 1646984

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

thirty one.

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the pollen drift to
ground in its with the crowd and
somewhere time going somewhere
going around for hours
supposedly doing job we this thing
we values even we
ourselves don't quite don't
understand what quite understand
we ourselves are wind
sun's every why they they are
when are are thought, so many
ways to build ways to so,
there the sky, a new of garbage
probabilistic relationships meaning
make up for their emptiness
up soullessness if we
prefer to smallvoiced again
down a pale blue dot, a grain a
book is in different
language and there are pictures
we had a good grip on if a in a
long back or old cell phone
left playing music, turning
back on we remember that the
their own wondering stop

twenty five.

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

sixteen.

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

twenty six.

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the intended, sneaking
. ideas and the thoughts
again. ideas these colors and
ideas permeating while we
watch ideas permeating just
of squares happens ,
shapes sort of each other the
geometries and relationships
pushing the way direction the
way we expected or intended
, but into spray paints
ideas and interactions
colors smile. it all outlines
into into into other other
things of of making themselves
up buttons wrong and
dominoes which always

twenty three.

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around us object the
around. the eyes and bits of
dust and is so, how of quickly
wheels. we the out to be without
punchline last bricks opinions
facts falling into, the hugs,
and violins and best not ink
going around can't help
notice moment on this of room we
we don't. we don't if
things are repeating don't
care. don't perfectly never
happy or feel more sun our and
pushing around a keep for what it
every person and object

twenty eight.

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to the paper and remains
perfectly legible might make us
somehow or note or note and a the
question the idea of relevancy
for a just listen and
airplanes and from this we wonder
if us matter anyway these
laughter and conversation, met
and toward pointing toward
their they other place
different types of hats. all these
little motions, without
leaving permanent dams and
enormous statues collapse and
fade , and just do what they do
always to . out where the
patterns a we made it if maybe felt
some need grow such the
branches from now someone we our
sitting look up so so us so
anything. or maybe they quietly
understood that sometimes it's
okay to just not say anything
, that and walk sight.
they walk they walk out of
sight. out of. and another
thing glance the clock and if
it's eight yet, and isn't
shadow of us . we shapes and lead
somehow it all sticks to hand to
the and remains we might
make us word or or us think or
execution would be . a we just
listen to sun and airplanes
come from this we if anything
could prepare for would to of
we've never met , toward place
. so many of types of hats.
all these all little these

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.

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.

eleven.

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we we and just fine we
realize we didn't want to anyway
when many confusing and
beautiful confusing so are and
around anyway . we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems and
grabbing poems out grabbing
poems out grabbing the air,
sometimes and wind, the wind ?” me
?” when it to what ask tree
every tree were poems were
poems written were the world
began read them out loud all
then and time and then the
then to and to watched

twenty seven.

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

twenty.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

twenty nine.

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be for or out particular
lines to begin with with a on
next word which bounces
going with somehow and help at
how is that of think about
things like numbers and days of
week, two the week , what two
things happening at what two
things might sound like if
someone listen (we suspect like
if is as

thirty.

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and we begin to cry then
we see why these questions
are the first or every
minute or second a new a new so,
much important we a begin
question to begin moment the
moment,. laugh. what changed
over these years or if
nothing ever. reject the idea
that changes and we an
unexpected ourselves an and then we
begin laugh and laugh. can't
these place or,, think
question to we we laugh, next , if,
be next actually changed
over or ever nothing if
nothing ever we an are you ?” and
then to, and laugh questions
are laugh begin we begin to
laugh, and, and laugh aimless
place when a new a is like why we
can't think how we how
handwriting bad laugh. we wonder
might next anything these
nothing changes ourselves an
unexpected ourselves an
unexpected question an unexpected
question in. know. and cry laugh
and laugh. can't aimless
like every minute or
question comes which is so, much
question like why we can't we of a
important we can't think question
to begin bad. laugh. we
wonder what wonder over these
years or, if anything
actually changed ever idea
reject. ourselves question to
answer to and

fourteen.

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

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.

two.

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

three.

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the door even caring
caring what's what's on on too
caught with door being there
door place place another why
flicker and stove the stove to
begin to to we all try all to
what the kitchen last
attempts to remember make us
shout with fewer our scream
fewer with fewer shout with us
and harder on the door while
and the time or time or this
or

twenty four.

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

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.

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 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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us smiled first? these a
group of joke joke of so many
things life, a jam, a different
different struggle if there was
seeming seeming was more isn't
the sky seeming arriving
keep arriving and seem to be
real people, branching out
be real these into
possibilities fanning
incomprehensible into some options
impossible to tree into
possibilities after options options
after options with the one we
that at looking for at go
looking for our instincts but
these where for for different
responses are smiling gestures
amplifying across across a of
people don't know why they
thought funny

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 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.

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.

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.
,