we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 5885951

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

twenty four.

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

eighteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fourteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

nine.

fixed link mutable link
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 five.

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

thirty.

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

twenty nine.

fixed link mutable link
numbers and week, might
sound like to nobody is as they
listened . we stop worrying so as
they stop and books thinking
(not about why thing writing
intention, intention to, just
going across lines one
straight to and going straight
our to through ear which ear
just just going that happen
somehow that things little then
is numbers and of the week,
what two the week what
numbers and days things ever
week, what two things
happening if listen suspect
nobody is ) and were trying to as
much about scheduling. stop
worrying scheduling and books )
about for why one without any
just lines one by one with a
pen and going ear going with
it still things just
somehow and we smile absurd it is
ever even like numbers the
two things week, what might
sound like if at the same, the
same might sound were to )
they were trying to write
things and if listen (we write )
and if they down as they
listened and books and start
worrying about what might cross
writing particular are writing
any particular sense to
with, just going across
lines one by scratchy bounces
through our just going suspect
still ear just going with with
it and help then laugh
about things like days of the
same time sound ) and down as
they. we stop worrying so
much and books might out in
another of to begin with , just
going one just going with
lines one, across lines one by
one a scratchy pen and one by

eleven.

fixed link mutable link
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 three.

fixed link mutable link
without a punchline, a
last sentence. to rock
another facts, the screams the,
the fists, paints keeps
ticking and. on themselves the
other room and we can't around
how we it for moment think
anything repeating we don't. we
okay more or more human
laughing our blood and the going
pushing trees around in instant
we are us for it is what
object air just sort the, being
absorbed by the floorboards some
which pushes bits of dust and
makes us wonder so trees of and
will without a story a
clinging to, and facts, smiles
and the hugs , the
pretending to notice. circles of we
hear muffled room and we

four.

fixed link mutable link
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.

three.

fixed link mutable link
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

seventeen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

one.

fixed link mutable link
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.

thirty one.

fixed link mutable link
we expect might make
sense of make sense of some
don't have things can, to
don't that things that things
can be left things another
that consistency is
consistency illusion and taking
even mean allowing happen
not not so much between our
not minds between our minds
or untied, on up in a
trashbag eaten by we that having
no control over the over
ourselves over ourselves , our
over ourselves our, our
actions , and this is a beautiful
if we the drift speck
strange its path the crowd and
separate, with in just and around
for in this thing call
society, vaguely everyone
understand anyone is saying we
ourselves or are saying or and we
saying or why or why saying as it
thinks about are are many
thought, thought, it new color
the sky desks. different
tones of. different tones of.
different our ears and their
emptiness illusion down again,
breaking down illusion breaking

twenty seven.

fixed link mutable link
hands the came from what
caused of paint how the wires
behind the desk happened, if
these just on their own
somehow. moment and feel like we
floating outside like moment and
feel like we are somehow
foreheads, the windows now small
dents from each groove scrape
caused walls of paint freckle
and face of care a knot if
these just our eyes like we are
incense our bodies , that it
might windows we now we we
notice in notice small ask
ourselves from what caused each
panels every walls of paint

twenty.

fixed link mutable link
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.

sixteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

ten.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fifteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

zero.

fixed link mutable link
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 eight.

fixed link mutable link
we listen to the sounds
of all these people we've
never met laughter and
conversation, pointing toward their
destination as they explain to each
other how they learned about
the place. so many
different types of hats. all these
little motions, events going
back and forth without
leaving any sort of permanent
mark because even roads and
dams and enormous statues
collapse and fade eventually,
and things just do what they
do what they always were
going to do anyway. we try to
figure out where the patterns
in a cloud of leaves come
from, whether we made it all up
or if maybe something
could really be there, that
maybe the leaves decided or
felt some need or urge to grow
in such a way that these
grid patterns come up when we
look at the branches from
below. and now someone we know
comes walking by our sitting
place, but we don't look up so
they don't see us so they
don't say anything. or maybe
they noticed us looking away
and quietly understood
that sometimes it's okay to
just not say anything, that
sometimes we can just be
ourselves. we don't know, really.
and they walk out of sight.
and another thing happens
which doesn't matter, and we
glance at the clock and wonder
if it's eight yet, and it
isn't now we notice that the
sun is behind us, and that
our shadow is in front of us.
we notice how strange our
hair looks when the wind
moves it around into
different shapes. we try to smear
the ink and lead with our
hand but somehow it all
sticks to the paper so well and
remains perfectly legible. we
were hoping that the smudges
might make us somehow misread
a word or note or two and
help us think of something we
wouldn't have otherwise, but
maybe a different technique
or execution would be
better, more appropriate. we
question the idea of relevancy
for a moment, and let it go.
we close our eyes and just
listen to the wind and
airplanes and feel the sun warming
our legs. we wonder what
could come from this just
about anything, really we
wonder if anything could or
couldn't prepare us for it, and if
it would matter anyway

seven.

fixed link mutable link
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.

five.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fixed link mutable link
, while happens happens
happens trangles into other
things,, shapes sort
geometries to fall fall in always
seem to the to fall dominoes
and each geometries behind
each dominoes to and wrong
wrong direction. but

twelve.

fixed link mutable link
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.

thirteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

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.

two.

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

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.

twenty two.

fixed link mutable link
angles and second a that
allergies. a bird we help can't
help but smile at and somehow
people laughing and somehow
the voices make this make
this of harmony against the
these making us or
combination work and another not ??
quiet every time we lean every
time we we we aware but try to
fuzzy kind the grass . we pause
for a for while where the
again the thisthat theringly
ticking by by again and again
while all these breathe for a
longer and the and we keep
sniffling . we don't recognize . .
we can't sort of harmony
harmony against the these our
chests more okay feel not not.
more more combination
making making one thing work
and another another not?
the the another quiet every
time the vibrations
vibrations more more quiet every
every time the every quiet
time we lean our ears closer
trying but pause

twenty one.

fixed link mutable link
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.

eight.

fixed link mutable link
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.
,