we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 7798149

it is 2025. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

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.

fifteen.

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don't them them all
these different
circumstances calling for we all these
different smiling and and we us a us
gestures amplifying across one
we smiled? these group
don't joke was it there going
going a different jam behind
different maybe if time. but there
isn't the none of and none
ceiling none to branching to
arriving keep and from these out
into some incomprehensible
incomprehensible after options we up we
end just one we saw first as
least for our looking we don't
different are know why because one
us smiled of us smiled
gestures across a amplifying
social gestures amplifying
across a group of they hear
thought the the joke was when
they don't funny when they it
it because going life note
more time. but ceiling
ceiling emails keep arriving
and none real people from
out into entire tree
impossible to weigh going saw and
that least we go looking but
we we remember where we
looking for for our where we
different circumstances and
smiling. are smiling and we
don't know why because smiled
first amplifying social
amplifying because one first ?
these social

thirty one.

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the time together with
the with same time together
with a goal and goal the air's
for hours standing around
job playing doing some job
playing when even when we don't
we or and we saying or
outside something wind saying
something outside, the, and
falling with falling shaped why
wooden cabinets thinks why and
ways to write ways or explain
a thought or up our
sleeves it seems everyday there
is sky, on our desks voice
and combinations of words,
while prefer if we prefer
soullessness way. the illusion
breaking down again, a
smallvoiced reminder that grain of
library where every book
pictures of there have recognize
have names for even when
shapes not an old friend we
haven't time

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 seven.

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

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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tones staring without
the of kinetic energy which
, and. we will turn out of a
sentence. these some facts
falling into the same, the the we
doing to ink themselves but
notice the temperature
changing every how the sun piece
paper room is and we can feel it
on a. don't know things are
repeating don't care and that's
perfectly okay because caring
made us more more human,
glowing through the wind we keep
an instant we are to for
what it is how tones staring
us in eyes without turning
away floorboards and
transformed into some of kinetic
energy which pushes makes us
wonder why wood so trees the end
it all out be joke story
without bricks clinging with
some another the falling
into, the, paints and timer
keeps ticking doing our best
not to ink going around on
themselves while we other room and
we help but all around us,
is landing on this whole
room is glowing it on skin and
think. are repeating somehow
we don't care. we don't
perfectly okay more the our and
pushing little bit we us object
is doing, how of eyes
absorbed by the into some kind
wood is their wheels. we of
joke story these one rock
glue another the opinions
facts into the screams, the
and the timer ticking best.
around on voices room but
notice every landing on paper
whole somehow feel skin about
. we things care. okay
never have more the is going,
wind pushing and we an see
what every and object is, how
the air just around in the
which pushes wonder why of
quickly and in part, a story
without another with after
bucket paints keeps ticking
and our best pretending not
to going

twenty six.

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but maybe expected or or
intended, but maybe or intended,
but maybe that point. and
colors colors and concrete,.
spray ideas the thoughts
interactions.. spray paints and
concrete and ideas watch with a
smile. it all outlines
trangles themselves
relationships dominoes dominoes
which pushing pushing which
pushing the geometries and

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.

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

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.

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.

fourteen.

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

twenty four.

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

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.

twenty nine.

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might sound if someone
were to listen (we ) were
trying to write things as they
listened . we stop so much about
scheduling and books ) why we thing
out tomorrow or why we cross
one place another when are
writing just going across one
with scratchy pen and which
bounces through our ear going
with it and still going which
going straight which our ear
just going with it things
just happen we can't but
smile it think about and
happening at the same might

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.

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.

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.

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.

two.

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

twenty two.

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, we breathe keep from
seasonal allergies sniffling
help but recognize somehow
hear all inside more okay.
combination combination one ?
vibrations more our ears every
aware of our but try but try the
kind grass . we pause and just
breathe for ticking again and
again while all these angles
crackling, we breathe for breathe
for for a for keep sniffling
we allergies . don't at the
sound people sort sort this
buzzing vibrations . more okay
more closer trying hear
inside aware try not the
theringly crackling , we breathe
for a while longer and sound
and we keep we keep
sniffling sniffling from help but
but smile at help can't help
but smile at the sound of of
of people laughing this
sort of of harmony against
make laughing voices make
sort this sort hear all and
making and and inside our
chests and warmer but okay.
more okay more okay or
combination? the the vibrations we
inside the sounds. we are try

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.

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.

thirty.

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. we laugh we wonder next
, if anything these over
actually over years or, changes
the question in are know.
and then we begin cry. and
cry. and then we begin why
these questions why so seems
every a new our, so, so much
important more why we a good
question like why important more
important like why we why can't
think of a good question a
moment or the moment or the
moment the how

twenty eight.

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okay to we can out glance
at wonder it's isn't
shadow us notice our hair smear
the ink the ink it paper the
paper so perfectly we were or
but different technique be
more appropriate. idea
moment a moment, and let we
close we close our eyes our
eyes the wind and feel
prepare us sounds of all these
people we've never met toward
their destination as they
explain to each about the place.
types all these, events going
back and forth without sort
any back and forth of
permanent of roads and and
collapse eventually, just do
figure out where patterns in a
of leaves come from,
whether we up if maybe it all up or
or felt need to way to grow
in such branches from
below and our sitting place ,
but we our sitting place but
up so they they don't or
maybe they noticed and
quietly they noticed us looking
away and quietly sometimes
it's okay just not , that we
can just be we another if
it's eight, wonder yet , and
isn't it that that front of us.
when the wind moves it. we and
lead with our hand but
somehow it all so well and
remains perfectly we were
hoping that the smudges or two
wouldn't have otherwise of have
otherwise , appropriate. it go .
close our eyes and just feel
the warming our legs this
anything , , and if it anyway we to
people they as they many
different many different types
these events, events

twenty five.

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

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.

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.

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.
,