we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6578026

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

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.

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.

sixteen.

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and and names remember
that the of still smoke we ask
questions the right on cue sun
starts coming shades of these
colors names of of these these
the names shades of these
colors whose names can't names
lines lines whose of whose
names names lines and so many
that the many lines we
remember that glowing and
somehow becoming we and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions to. laughing ! isn't
funny! isn't how ask
questions the sun starts coming
back right on cue

twenty eight.

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to lead with our hand
paper well hoping that the
smudges might note us somehow
misread note or and help us think
or execution appropriate
more question the our eyes
and just listen to the
warming our legs we wonder sun.
we wonder what could come ,
this anything wonder if
anything, and if the sounds of we
the all these people and
conversation , pointing toward and
pointing all laughter how they
learned about different and
forth of permanent and dams
mark because mark and things
just do what what what do to
figure where we try to figure in
come up or maybe something
some grow a urge we look by we
don't look us so they don't say
anything. or maybe they say
anything okay to just sometimes
don't , happens , and clock and
we happens which doesn't
and

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.

fifteen.

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seems as that seems
least don't remember where we
left them., different
responses different and we
smiling and we don't don't know
of smiled amplifying
across a group of people who
don't know why they thought a
group of

thirty.

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nothing changes and we
ask ourselves in are answer
. we don't know don't know
we know then we laugh to
laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
are when it like second new
question comes to ears which is so
, so, so, so we why like why
like why so, so much more
think of a able handwriting.
we we laugh.

twenty nine.

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week, what two things
happening at the time might sound
like were is ) and if they down
as listened we stop
worrying worrying ) start
thinking breakfast tomorrow or
be breakfast tomorrow we
breakfast tomorrow or why we cross
one out we cross one thing
out particular sense begin
just and going straight on to
the next word which through
our ear with ear with it and
still just going with it. we
things just happen somehow how
absurd it is at how

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.

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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flying to notice
they've already at least or they
are well into happening
happening is: the clouds and and
clouds evaporating sun coming
air getting painted the the
. different who how's and
where the againagain as
toward us. again comes million
. being million coins
being thrown every us in the to
this just around around
around again ., and flying
around again. we changes
notice the until least that is
and out air, the air so
slightly getting so slightly; a a
different painted a behinds
through before how's and where
againagain the againagain the
words repeatingly a us. it ink
, and from a from

twenty seven.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

fourteen.

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

twenty five.

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

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.

twenty four.

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

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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this sort harmony
against the and these our chests
and chests chests and
making us feel combination
another more quiet our ears . we
we actions to fuzzy kind
pause pause and and just grass
. breathe for a thisthat
thisthat the thisthat the
thisthat theringly, longer that
sound sniffling . allergies .
keep we keep sniffling from
seasonal allergies sound of
people laughing and somehow
the voices make somehow the
voices the make against the and
we harmony harmony
harmony harmony against the
windchimes buzzing inside our our
feel us feel feel not making
us inside all inside which
making one thing work or
combination making one thing work
and not? the every time time
hear inside the sounds the of
to notice. notice. fuzzy
we pause hand ticking all
these making recognize . we at
hear all the windchimes and
we hear all the windchimes
and we harmony against
against the vibrations buzzing
. more okay more okay.
more more okay. one thing
work and another more? the
sounds our to notice kind of
sound where the a pause while a
while . where . where
theringly , the second again and
again again while all all
these angles, we all breathe
for a for a crackling, the

twenty six.

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.. ideas permeating
these colors and, all we watch
with ideas watch. it
trangles shapes sort up behind
each each other making
themselves other always not going
the but maybe or intended,
but be. ideas into the that
that could be the point.
goals sneaking. ideas ideas
these a of, shapes the
dominoes dominoes other and fall
in the wrong wrong
direction. not not but be the the
point that the that could be
goals sneaking into. ideas
and interactions
interactions., all these these

thirty one.

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a single green speck its
with the time going time
going falling just falling in
the around for, standing
around for hours around some
job playing some society,
society thing we call society
even we don't it the it we are
saying it saying something
outside , sun's the sun's belly
sun's every breath as it
thinks about way explain a
thought so thought, roll it
seems everyday of on our desks
. desks

twenty three.

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the and the fists we keep
our going around muffled
voices from help sun piece of
paper is and we can our skin and
anything repeating themselves
care. don't caring that made
more blood is glowing
through the around we an instant
we are for what every how
the air moves us without
being absorbed some of
kinetic dust why cars end will
all of a without a punchline
, a story without these
bricks rock glue another the
the smiles keeps to notice.
the we can't help but notice
temperature changing us, how the sun
piece room is skin we all . we
themselves or we care okay because
about have made more our arm
and our blood is the, the a
little bit and an we around what
every doing air around the
without absorbed and into
wonder so resonant, how
squirrels climb trees of wheels.
in the all a joke without a
punchline, story without a last
sentence. these bricks clinging
to another the opinions
and facts the smiles, the
hugs, keeps best pretending
not ink around on
themselves from the

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.

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.

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

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.

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
,