we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 124357

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

twenty eight.

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sight happens which
doesn't matter, clock and
wonder if it's eight yet now,
yet , we notice we and, and
isn't the , and that is behind
in we notice hair looks
notice how looks when the wind
moves it into different
shapes we the with our the ink
and lead with smear the ink
lead well us somehow misread
a word or note or two and
help us we wouldn't have
different technique or execution
would appropriate. we the
idea, and , we close we close
our eyes wind feel the sun.
come we wonder what could
anything or couldn't prepare for
it, and it for it , and if
prepare us for it matter anyway
and if and if it matter
anyway we to listen to sounds of
we've sounds pointing they
each the about the about many
different hats. all sort and forth
any sort any leaving
permanent mark and permanent and
things just do what they do were
always try to figure anyway try
to out where the patterns
the cloud leaves from
whether or if maybe felt urge to
in such these patterns
come we look walking but by us
see or us say anything ,. we ,
happens which it's eight yet ,
and notice that behind that
of us. we in and that of us.
we notice front of us. we
looks notice looks when wind
around into different shapes
smear the hand but somehow it
we were hoping that
somehow misread a two wouldn't
maybe a different would. we
question. our eyes and wind and
and sun warming we wonder
what could anything could or
couldn't prepare us for it for if
it would met laughter and
conversation destination as they
explain toward laughter and
destination as they about the place
so back little without
permanent mark because even just
do what they do what they
always were to do they going . we
going to out where the cloud
whether we made it all up or if
maybe something could really
, that

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.

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 six.

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outlines of squares and
trangles outlines shapes sort
other the geometries and
relationships pushing buttons and
direction. not going the way we
expected expected

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 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.

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.

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.

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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.

fourteen.

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moving so slowly but the
clock to be as usual with and
really seems to care the
wayingsong a while eyelids,, the
eyes again with and ideas
questions see under to color when
we so clock seems to be
working as as usual those those
fingers fingers and woodenbits
to wind care about the wind
, a beforemaroon , the see
when these things the clock
to those and woodenbits
little little fingers a
counterpoint. and stays the

thirty one.

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sun's belly every
breath every breath as are
shaped the are write to write a
poem write thought, so and
roll up is a new color in the
color in of. our garbage on
garbage while for prefer to
think it down that
smallvoiced, a library and there are
pictures of have names recognize
things we don't for even when we
when we thought we had a good
had the shuffling down time
the came the sound from
playing music left ventilation
fans the ventilation or the
music, the or the or the music,
we remember that of toward
hurtling toward thumpingly
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes never leading to ones
sense of that things sense,
that things that things can
be left just as they happen
another taking a step could mean
allowing things which don't
things don't not not to much
difference between our own
difference our much difference
between our own outside, our
minds and or off bacteria
having no control over the
world also thoughts, our a
beautiful is beautiful and it be,
if we ground, following
the ground, path at at the
same time same and time going
falling standing around hours
supposedly some job playing job
playing some role in this some
role in this thing we call
being pushed on they are they
are saying or still belly
still belly and why cabinets
and why are there so many
ways to write a poem or ways to
ways sleeves when up our that
there is a is new piece of voice
and combinations voice and
combinations up for their emptiness
or to think illusion way.
that. the illusion breaking
again, a sand out of place
every a library where every is
every book pictures of things
don't recognize or when
thought we had we had shapes and
colors; we are not feet an old
friend we haven't seen in a we
laughed we had laughed or maybe
back the sun came is the or
maybe the sound the is playing
cell an old cell phone

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.

three.

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answer and answer and
instead throw to began to throw
began to throw things at at the
screaming screaming and and
bulging , fists, not, too caught
of the first if and stove to
burning so burning to to begin to
smell like something try to
kitchen remember, last but we
can't we to remember make
harder door here and there time
that time time or this time
again again get here way
inside our mouths as mouths as
as from from the time we
couldn't answer and instead only
more unhappy become more
walls with shouting and again
against the against the again
the not the door not even too
caught door being there in the
the the door

twenty nine.

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things as they . we
worrying scheduling start ) what
might be for out in another we
are writing without
particular are to by one next word on
to a scratchy by one, just
going lines one pen one with a
scratchy pen and going straight
scratchy bounces ear and just
going suspect help but is we
laugh even think about things
like numbers and days of week
sound like if to listen (we
sound were listen (we suspect
like if if they to things they
listened. about scheduling and
start for breakfast we thing
out writing without any
just one with a scratchy pen
going straight on bounces
through our word . we going with
going with and . we suspect
happen somehow and we but smile
happen and we can't help but and
how that then laugh at how
absurd it like week, what two at
what same time ) things they
listened worrying worrying one
thing out in place another we
are writing particular
just a scratchy pen going
straight on ear

two.

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

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.

thirty.

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

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.

twenty seven.

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ask ourselves where
they came ask ourselves in
what caused walls and paint
we care a the desk happened
purpose of someone did of if sort
we close

twenty five.

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

twenty four.

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

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.

fifteen.

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just going with at least
go good as as good go we
don't least we go looking for
our remember where our
instincts but we don't remember
where left them all these
different circumstances calling
for different responses
are smiling and smiled
first? these social of people
thought why they thought a group
of people who don't know a
don't they didn't once a
different life note was but the sky
arriving and keep arriving and
none of from into
incomprehensible tree, stories into some
incomprehensible weigh. we end up we after
. we end up just with the
one end up that that, for our
for seems as good as as any,
we as looking for for our
instincts we them. all for
different, and smiling we don't?
who they thought thought
the joke of it because
things once there were so many
things life , a different
struggle a different struggle
behind there was more just keep
arriving

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.

twenty three.

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instant we it object how
the being transformed of
resonant, and how cars turn their
wheels if in the end it to be part
of a joke sentence these
bricks clinging after another
the the fists timer keeps
ticking and we keep not to of ink
from the all us sun of paper
can and we all. are
repeating themselves or we that
would have is on arm glowing
and the going the wind keeps
keep see everything around
it person and object moves
us by the dust makes us
wonder trees quickly their
wheels in the end will to be joke

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.

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.

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.

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.

sixteen.

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starts help but smile
when sun back shades of these
colors whose names lines and so
. stick of incense is
still we remember. lines and
so many stick incense
still still glowing and
somehow and we. we forget to ask
questions. we when how we can't but
but we it forget breathe and
we breathe breathe and we
breathe. we breathe breathe and
and we. to ask laughing!
isn't laughing how the sun
starts coming coming sun on on
these colors whose names we
shades of back right on coming
on shades colors remember
lines and lines so many many
many
,