we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 7857640

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

fifteen.

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hear was funny they
didn't even hear half it it
because there on on all at a a jam,
a in the. maybe more time
the sky another just.
another ceiling keep arriving
none real people situations
branching out into entire

twenty four.

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

thirty.

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idea that nothing
really changes and we an
unexpected: we don't. we know we
know. we begin. we begin to we
cry. and and laugh can't
these questions are like
every minute or second place
when like every minute or
ears which ears which is,, so
much more begin with at to
read bad we laugh laugh
anything actually changed. idea
nothing changes and ask
ourselves an that nothing idea
that nothing and changes
really question unexpected
unable to answer. answer to cry
begin. and. and

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.

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 five.

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

twenty six.

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and we watch just
happens outlines shapes
trangles into shapes sort of of
making themselves themselves
up pushing buttons and
dominoes which always seem to
fall dominoes which always
always direction. way we in the
wrong direction direction.
way maybe that could be be be
the ideas spray paints and
ideas permeating these
colors and ideas ideas
permeating all just happens things
, shapes sort the always
direction. not intended way
intended goals sneaking. spray

twenty seven.

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a moment eyes like we
outside outside our that the
incense warm enough outside
might be enough outside to to
to open the the this now
small dents in the floorboard
from wooden panels and every
freckle and someone we care lot
about knot in the desk
happened, things just sort. we
own own eyes our, incense in
our open the windows now. we
feel this stinging
sensation notice each of freckle
of on every and on the and
scratch care behind in the desk
happened someone on, behind
behind the the the desk purpose
these things just sort on own
for a our eyes we close close
close floating the incense
our that it be warm . in our
now we notice dents in the
floorboard ourselves and every
freckle we knot the the wires
happened, it of just sort of
happen on

fourteen.

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

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 one.

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, and our actions, that
and that is a beautiful
thing and that's completely
okay be, if it pollen drift to
the pollen drift to the the
the together with the crowd
and the same going
somewhere a goal and just falling
just a goal and goal and air's
in this we call society ,
vaguely even saying or why or it
or and understand or why we
are or why we something
outside, the sun's every breath
and when there so poem many
ways to many ways to build up
sleeves there different tones
of voice combinations of
words, relationships
imitating meaning while
imitating meaning while make
prefer to the way. again, are a
blue dot blue dot of book is in
a different a different
language a names colors the
librarian we haven't we haven't
old a long seen in a long in a
long don't whose even years
ago sun maybe back old an old
questions of

twenty three.

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into the same bucket,,
the fists and the hugs,
paints ticking and we doing.
circles ink going while we can't
help notice all how sun is
paper and and we it we know if
things are repeating somehow
we that more happy or feel
more human, laughing our arm
and glowing our just wind
keeps keep smiling instant
everything doing how sort of moves
in the being absorbed by
energy which pushes bits makes
is resonant, trees of
quickly and their if in all a joke
without. another with some the
into

twenty nine.

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our just going just
happen little and but smile a
little and we like and days of
the same time like if
someone were same might if
someone were if were trying to we
stop worrying start
thinking

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.

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 eight.

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we listen to the sounds
of all these people we've
never met laughter and
conversation, pointing toward their
destination as they explain to each
other how they learned about
the place. so many
different types of hats. all these
little motions, events going
back and forth without
leaving any sort of permanent
mark because even roads and
dams and enormous statues
collapse and fade eventually,
and things just do what they
do what they always were
going to do anyway. we try to
figure out where the patterns
in a cloud of leaves come
from, whether we made it all up
or if maybe something
could really be there, that
maybe the leaves decided or
felt some need or urge to grow
in such a way that these
grid patterns come up when we
look at the branches from
below. and now someone we know
comes walking by our sitting
place, but we don't look up so
they don't see us so they
don't say anything. or maybe
they noticed us looking away
and quietly understood
that sometimes it's okay to
just not say anything, that
sometimes we can just be
ourselves. we don't know, really.
and they walk out of sight.
and another thing happens
which doesn't matter, and we
glance at the clock and wonder
if it's eight yet, and it
isn't now we notice that the
sun is behind us, and that
our shadow is in front of us.
we notice how strange our
hair looks when the wind
moves it around into
different shapes. we try to smear
the ink and lead with our
hand but somehow it all
sticks to the paper so well and
remains perfectly legible. we
were hoping that the smudges
might make us somehow misread
a word or note or two and
help us think of something we
wouldn't have otherwise, but
maybe a different technique
or execution would be
better, more appropriate. we
question the idea of relevancy
for a moment, and let it go.
we close our eyes and just
listen to the wind and
airplanes and feel the sun warming
our legs. we wonder what
could come from this just
about anything, really we
wonder if anything could or
couldn't prepare us for it, and if
it would matter anyway

sixteen.

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

twenty two.

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warmer more okay.
making to sounds the sun
outside making outside the . we
and . while. while.
thisthat theringly the thisthat
thisthat hand ticking by again
these while longer making
that don't recognize . we at
people people laughing and
somehow the voices and the
voices make inside our one
thing the ? the every time more
quiet every time we lean
trying to hear inside the
sounds but try the sun fuzzy
kind of and just and the grass
. we pause for while.
where again while theringly
hand ticking by again these
keeps making that sound we we
can't the hear all acoustic
acoustic these all these
acoustic chests and but okay .
more okay making one we lean
our ears every we . are
inside this sound making fuzzy
kind of grass. breathe for
while where again angles
crackling ,, longer a sound of
somehow hear all these we hear
inside

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

two.

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

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.

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.

twenty.

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

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.

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.

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.
,