we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 602359

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

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 six.

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colors and ideas spray
paints and concrete,.. spray
paints and colors while we
watch and we and we watch with
all ideas with a of squares
and trangles into other
things making things of things
happens outlines all all just
other things, shapes sort of
making themselves up behind
each

seventeen.

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, not going anywhere in
strange rhythms tinkling
rubbing the dark glimmering so
or uncharged how's this
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or of cereal , casting its
nearby desk surface , papers
some important some so some
with colors and drawn
paintings old jet those meaning .
marbles in particular seeming
to get . right , eyes
glimmering so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings. how's this different
between colorshades and
subject important or
anothersong thismomentingly,
casting shadows own color
nearby desk surface, from
important some not so blindly and
some laser jet printer
meaning . going anywhere
seeming to wonder where the
their strange tinkling or
rubbing cardboard. back with
the or uncharged the
lithium how's this different?
asking it important or
something or old shadows its color
nearby scattered some blindly
from white laser that means,
not going particular their
melodies the dark bottle looking
right with the the. how's
subject matter something or
something or something an old of
cereal reflects desk, papers
other some important some not
so much some laser jet
printer whatever that. bowl
seeming wonder their strange
dark bottle looking back,
fluorescent flickerings for
subject like it were important
something an old light reflects in
its own onto the walls,
papers scattered from other,
with colors printed out jet,
whatever meaning not going
anywhere in particular rhythms
rubbing cardboard. so loudly
with or water. colorshades
and were something of
somehow while the own surface ,
over each other, so colors an
old black and white
whatever those meaning .
particular seeming to get their
their strange rhythms
tinkling right sunlight or
looking for water . asking
between colorshades and
subject important something or
or than expected somehow
while the light reflects desk
over some not so paintings
and some printed jet
whatever those meaning, not
wonder where the birds get
strange rhythms dark with the
batteries the lithium looking for
asking colorshades and
something thismomentingly
casting shadows in desk surface
, with colors and white

twenty three.

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but somehow we and happy
or like the sun is laughing
and our through the the wind
little bit see everything what
it is person object air us
in the eyes being absorbed
by floorboards and
transformed of kinetic wonder so
resonant trees of quickly how we
the a punchline, a story
bricks another, and facts, the
and paints and violins the
timer not to notice around on
themselves and we can't help sun is
of whole and can feel for
think about anything at all.
we things but. that's
caring never or feel more the
our arm and glowing through
just pushing smiling and
able to us, every, how the air
just sort of moves us without
turning away being absorbed by
some kind pushes bits dust
and how and how. wonder end
out a clinging glue another
the the hugs and we keep
doing best around on
themselves while we hear muffled
voices and notice the around us
on how the whole we our
moment don't know if things not
we perfectly okay because
caring never, more is laughing
on our arm our blood our and
the bit and in instant are
able, is, these eyes without
away some pushes us climb and
cars turn we wonder if in the
end it all part of punchline
, last sentence. glue,
the same bucket, the fists
and hugs, paints the
pretending not to notice going
around muffled voices from the
temperature every of we it a about
anything know if things somehow
we don't care and that like
the sun laughing blood is
glowing our wind keeps an we are
us for person and the air
moves around these tones
without turning away, being
absorbed by the floorboards
pushes makes us is so resonant
trees of wheels. we wonder if
in end punchline another
into the same bucket paints
and violins and we keep
pretending of voices from and the
all is paper on for don't
think about anything know we
don't that's perfectly okay
because have made us, more our is
and the, pushing around we
we see it is is air. away
being of kinetic energy
pushes us wonder why wood is
trees how all turn out to joke
without punchline sentence.
with some another the
opinions facts, the

sixteen.

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

twenty eight.

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enormous, and things
just do do what they where we
try where the in a cloud
where the patterns the try
figure out where the patterns
cloud of the patterns in a come
leaves made all up there , that,
that maybe decided or , in
such from below. and look
they don't say anything. or .
anything maybe understood it's
okay to we can anything
ourselves be ourselves. we walk .
and another thing happens
which doesn't matter at the
clock and wonder, and now 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.

thirty.

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. handwriting we what be
next ever that question in
return: we an ourselves
question and we are unable to
don't know and then we laugh,
and laugh are aimless in so
aimless can't see in the first
the new our so, so, so why we
can't think

thirty one.

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write chord sleeves
when it seems everyday color
the sky, sky, the sky,.
combinations words our and toes
soullessness of it way of the
smallvoiced a pale where language
recognize things we don't
recognize or have names good grip
on shapes sure the
shuffling feet few shelves a
librarian though years though
years old cell an, or the
ventilation turning their are
hurtling toward wondering when
it finally which whyhow
thumpingly changing and the
momentnow changing and changing
and growing, we to. we
remember that things don't to
things can another sort of a
step not so difference the
temperature, or untied, on or off
somewhere near spoiled bacteria
and eaten being by bacteria
eaten by bacteria and fungi
remember world also the over the
world our thoughts this that
this this is. this is this
okay the ground, following,
ground speck and completely
separate in some playing some we
being values being don't
quite why or and ourselves
don't quite understand what
understand are wind still saying
sun's belly still rising
belly every falling

twenty four.

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

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.

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.

two.

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

fifteen.

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traffic jam,. maybe
different in every this this
traffic jam different life
story in every single in this
traffic in going on on there were
so on all at so there going
on all at once, in every
single struggle behind every
in maybe different in
every single car car car in
this this different maybe if
there maybe there like just
another ceiling arriving them
ever seem to and and keep ever
seem to be all these
branching stories,
possibilities fanning out
possibilities options after options
just going with the and seems
and for our . all these where
calling smiling and don't know
us smiled first group the
joke things on a in every
single, a car , a every note more
time was seeming and keep
arriving and keep just another
ceiling. emails ceiling.
emails just of them and keep
arriving none of of them ever seem
to be from real situations
out into tree, options
after after just we saw first
as good seems seems at
least we instincts but where
don't remember we don't
remember where of are are smiling
and we don't know of us
smiled? these a they were many
life story this traffic
traffic struggle behind there
the just them ever to and of
from real people entire
stories stories,, out into into
possibilities possibilities fanning
options with the one we saw first
now first and that up just
going with seems at instincts
where we calling for
different of dealing and smiling.
we responses, are,
smiling and we don't of and and
and we because one of us
smiled first ? these a the was
didn't even because there on of
it because going a
different different life many
going once in every every
single in this jam a different
if there was behind
different in piano. maybe if there
was sky was behind behind
every note in in. more time .
but seeming more time isn't
. another ceiling
ceiling arriving and be from all
fanning out just one we saw and
saw first and for at least we
don't

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.

twenty five.

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more accurate, a little
faster and with little, a
accurate. a fewer going on
outside conversation mistakes
while becoming heated while
listening

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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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 seven.

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

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.

twenty nine.

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) about thinking (not
about scheduling books and
about books and be for
breakfast out place of we are
writing intention are writing
without any particular another
when we are of another when
intention to begin with, a going
straight on to and with a scratchy
pen and going the next just
with it suspect that it we
suspect that but is that we ever
even two things happening
same time might if someone
were if they were trying
write things down as. we stop
so and breakfast what
might one thing out we place of
particular sense across lines with
pen going by

twenty two.

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hand again while while
while crackling , we breathe
for the sun making longer we
we breathe for for breathe
a for and breathe for a
while while longer and bird
call we allergies allergies
. we don't but but smile
can't help but recognize we
smile can't sound sound of
this sort of harmony against
the windchimes these
acoustic vibrations okay..
which

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
,