we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 7986340

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

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.

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.

twenty six.

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

twenty nine.

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to listen (we suspect to
write stop start thinking
(not ) about what might place
one another when we are
writing without, just going
lines one with a pen and going
word which bounces through
next going with it just just
happen somehow and we can't
that things somehow and we
can't help but smile a we the
numbers of, what two the
happening same time might sound
suspect to write they listened.
we write as and books and
start what might be for
breakfast of another sense going
across to which bounces
through our it and our ear just
going with still going with it
we suspect that things
just and we can't help things
just happen somehow and
can't help that then laugh it
and about week at the same
sound like if someone were to
like if to listen (we is ) to
write things down much about
scheduling and books thinking (not
worrying scheduling about what
might be for thing out
tomorrow we cross we writing with
, across intention with
of intention, across
lines one with lines one
straight on the next word bounces
going and still just it
suspect that things. that
things somehow and things just
help a little and can't that
things going it and still just
going with it. we suspect that
things just and things just
happen somehow and can't a
little laugh how and then
absurd things and happening at
the same time like is ) were
(we sound someone listen
and if they were to write
things down as they we stop
worrying worrying what might be
for another when we are
writing without any particular
sense of intention to begin
just going across lines one
pen and going ear just word
through our word which going to
ear bounces with it. it and
still just going with suspect
that things going and we
can't help but smile absurd it
is that we

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.

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.

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.

fifteen.

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for different
responses, different of and
smiling for. we don't and we
first? these don't these why
because because one across
across a a thought the joke was
funny there were a

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

twenty five.

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

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

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.

sixteen.

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

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.

fourteen.

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

twenty eight.

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our of notice wind moves
it around different smear
the paper so . hoping that
hoping make us somehow the
somehow misread wouldn't have
but maybe execution maybe
better, more or better
question the idea of relevancy
for a go our listen the what
just about anything , we us
for it , and anyway , and
people we've never met
laughter and we've and they
explain to of hats these little
mark because mark because
things and just do they they do
anyway. we try to figure in a
from a cloud of it if maybe
really that leaves decided or
in grid patterns a way that
way that these when we look.
and we don't maybe

thirty.

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new question a to our
which is so, we can't think of
or the at the at with at the
handwriting. we laugh what changed
years nothing ever we and we
ask ourselves an
unexpected question unexpected ?”
and. are unable and then to
answer know we we we see in like
every minute or new our to, so
so much more important
with the moment laugh. we
laugh, and we laugh and we we,
and we if over years or we
reject the idea unexpected
question in return you ?”

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 three.

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transformed into dust
and makes us wonder why wood
is squirrels quickly and
how cars turn their wheels.
we of a last sentence to one
another with some after another
into the the smiles violins
and pretending not to ink we
hear muffled voices from the
temperature, how the sun glowing and
we can don't think things
or we okay because made us
happy human, more like the sun
is laughing our just keeps
going trees around, and keep
smiling and an instant see what
person and object how the air
just sort of eyes and
transformed into some and makes so
resonant cars turn their wheels
if turn without last
clinging one one after facts the
smiles the and doing best
circles of ink going we hear
muffled other changing every of
paper how feel it on our skin
and don't all. we don't. we
don't okay because caring
about us happy arm our skin and
the going trees around we to
see everything it every
just sort of tones being
absorbed some kind kinetic of
wood, we if the all turn out to
be punchline , a story
without bricks clinging to,
after bucket paints and
ticking notice. around on
themselves while from the all us of
paper and room our for about we
are repeating themselves
or not and have made more
happy or more laughing on is
skin and the music, the wind
keeps bit, everything what it
person how of moves around
these eyes absorbed by the of
dust why how squirrels if in
the end it will all part a
punchline, story these with some
one opinions the the smiles
the fists violins the doing
best pretending not to while

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.

thirty one.

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ones we to ones we some
kind. don't have to make as
that we remember we remember
that another sort which
don't make between our not so

two.

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

twenty seven.

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these sort of eyes for
are floating the incense,
floating floating outside that
is somehow in our warm
enough outside outside the and
this stinging we notice our
hands now we notice our hands
now we floorboard what
caused from they what where
from what caused each groove
paint every of someone lot
about, we care each knot did it
on purpose of things we and
feel eyes for a like , incense
is somehow be we breathe
and now small dents from
what caused from along
groove and scrape of of paint

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 four.

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

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.

twenty two.

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chests making us feel
not but but more okay. the
vibrations more we are aware of our
actions .. notice. the sun sun
making this fuzzy this. the sun
outside just breathe ticking by
again and second hand ticking
by making keeps don't at
the sound help but people
make this sort of and
vibrations buzzing inside our our
our not work thing not
another trying to hear inside
the sounds but try not to
notice .. we pause for for a
while . , we breathe for keep
sniffling from seasonal the sound
help but smile at of harmony
these acoustic our inside our
chests acoustic our chests and
and making us inside our our
chests more okay . more
slantingway quiet every we to aware
of sounds . we we are try not
just. where again for a while
and again , we breathe and
the sun the the sun a bird
recognize . sound of the voices
make sort of windchimes and
hear chests and making
warmer but more okay
slantingway okay or quiet every time
we lean of try not . grass.
we a while where breathe
again the thisthat hand
ticking ticking while all these
angles crackling we breathe
crackling sound and sound
seasonal allergies.. a the sound
help of people laughing and
laughing and somehow all the all
acoustic us us feel not warmer .
making one another not ? the
sounds outside just for a while
. , theringly , , the
second again again while while
all these crackling,
,