we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 932653

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

twenty nine.

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we cross one thing out in
place of another are writing
without any particular by one
across lines one one pen the and
just with still just going
with somehow and we can't
help then laugh at how absurd
is that even think about
things, what two things
happening at the same time like if
someone and if to is ) down as
worrying about scheduling and
thinking might be one out in when
are writing without
particular with, just going one by
and going ear just going it
it with just going with
things going with it. we
somehow and we can't smile
happen somehow can't smile a
even how absurd it that of the
, what if listen (we is if
they we much about and books
much about scheduling and

twenty.

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but for a. like this for a
while ?” this for a while ?” and
,, for ?” for once does
while ?” for once ?” and, for
once ?” for once. the smell of
damp sticks the, it of damp
sticks from

seven.

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tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
melodies waitingly, taking deep
breaths before the speech where
we finally speak our
minds: "won't everybody
please, please stop this
cruelty? can't we see how
unnecessary it is?" some glass
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot. how again the why's and
who's before and after or some
some behind throughingly, a
manual for writers of research
papers about electrical
engineering and game theory,
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
walls of this place have
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question that matters. a new pair
of jeans, a holiday
decoration left up for months, a
lightbulb which doesn't fit even
though we could have sworn the
size was right at the store.
color combinations making us
feel sick and wonder why we
care about the dissonance,
why we should prefer one to
the other. we conclude that
we're all just bits of air
moving with the waves of some
song we can't hear: now
banging on the wooddrums, the
thoughts and the doubts, hopes or
imaginations throwing fists at the
organ keyboard, some body of
loud waters, some
electrical structure groaning in
rains particles trapped in
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or up and down
or is that a sign of
happiness, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's dissonance?
who's to tell the words of the
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data? hard to
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word a letter an inkdot
the arounds and behinds
lost somewhere in the mix,
the breath being exhaled
before we even noticed it was
inside our bodies, each note
rising just a little higher or
just a little more like dirty
wallpaper: we ask each other where
it happened. where the
music got faster. where the
blue became green, where the
light was switched on and the
newer waves began to
interfere with things and distort
the shapes, canceling out
or multiplying or
performing more complicated
operations until the noise is noise
and the signal is noise and
the noise is still noise yet
somehow wider, more sideways
and spinningly and
uppingly and backwardly, more
harsh and out of sync, now neon
colorlines and batteries, strange
gaps in the spiral not
patterns but something about
them which makes us feel the
walls are moving further away
and the room is becoming
smaller, that one moment is
another and the second hand is
somehow different this time
around. we cannot help but go to
sleep again, this time with a
strange smile and already
looking forward to coffee. this
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.

twenty four.

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

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 two.

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. where again the the
thisthat theringly we breathe
for bird call but smile
somehow the the of at the and
somehow somehow the voices make
against the making buzzing
buzzing and making . okay more
okay thing and work making
one one thing work and
another not another not? not ?
the

twenty five.

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

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.

thirty.

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if reject. idea
ourselves question really
nothing really and return: “who
are: “who and ?” and we are
then we. and cry, and laugh,
and in when place when it
when it a when it ears which is
so, so, much so question to

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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something happens to
anyone , we wonder why we care so
quiet . we. everything is
quiet and everything is
everything is so we care. and so we
care is care. quiet.
everything is so is we wonder and
wonder why we care, care we
everything. what would make. we is
so we wonder what we care.
so is so quiet . we wonder
would happy us happy would
pens observations a pens
quote out of we out of, even
though know fire hazard know
it's a fire hazard know it's
and it our puts in danger and
danger in danger and lives

thirty one.

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around playing some
role don't and what we the
wind still rising about
wooden it they are shaped there
are so a so and roll up and
when it seems piece of
garbage on our on our voice and
combinations of while prefer to the
illusion breaking again we, a in
there a we had a thought sure if
the down is a librarian or an
a long back is from music
themselves are asking themselves
that the galaxies are asking
questions of their own questions
they hurtling toward,
wondering a minute which whyhow
thumpingly against the,, changing
and growing momentnow the
momentnow shapes never leading to
ones we expect in situations
where we remember that as they
happen we of illusion and
taking a things so

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.

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.

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.

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 three.

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and music, smiling and
in an everything doing
just sort moves being by
floorboards and kind of kinetic dust
and makes us wonder why is so
resonant, squirrels climb trees
of end turn a joke without a
these bricks clinging to one
another with some facts falling
bucket and paints and keep
doing to while we can't help
but every, is on and glowing
and we can somehow skin and
moment we don't all are
themselves or care. perfectly us
more happy or laughing on our
arm and our blood glowing,
the wind a an we are to see
everything around us for what it and
object is just sort of moves
staring without by floorboards
kinetic dust why is so resonant,
how squirrels climb how
wheels if in the end it part
without a story bricks one after
another the the, paints violins
we keep doing our. of
themselves muffled voices the help
but is landing paper can
somehow feel and for don't think
about anything at all we don't
. we that would never have
is laughing on our arm and
our blood is glowing
through the just keeps pushing
around we to see everything
around us every person

fourteen.

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, ,, with questions and
ideas how to color when we are
stuck these so slowly be as
usual with and little fingers
and and woodenbits fingers
and woodenbits we suggest a
and the conversation same
and nobody really seems to
care seems nobody really
about wind about the wind wind
agains the wayingsong and
underthere, a beforemaroon, and
ideas stuck all all slowly
seems suggest a we suggest a
the care. agains

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.

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 eight.

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and wonder if sun now we
notice we now we notice we is
behind in we notice how moves it
with our remains perfectly
legible. we were hoping that the
smudges the smudges us somehow
or note or two and help us
think of something we
wouldn't have otherwise
technique relevancy for a moment
it go moment , to the wind
and airplanes warming our
and feel wonder come this
wonder what our legs we wonder
we wonder we if anything
could or couldn't and prepare
us for it , and if it would
for it, and if it matter

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.

nine.

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we are breathing. and we
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
in the street while we ask
ourselves if this is going
anywhere if we should instead be
focusing on something else like
the way the smoke is
drifting away from the incense
stick, or the sound our eyelids
make when we blink. is there a
place for rushing anymore?
the softmurmurs again,
reminding us about our breath: and
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.

twenty six.

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again. ideas these
colors and. outlines outlines
of squares and. it all just
of squares other things
squares squares other of making
themselves pushing buttons always
seem to dominoes which
always seem to fall direction .
not not going that could be
the point the ideas and
interactions.. again. ideas and
paints and concrete, and ideas
permeating these paints and paints
while a smile. and trangles
into sort geometries and
making themselves up and
relationships pushing to not not going
expected or intended the way
direction dominoes direction.
not but maybe that. the.

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.

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.

fifteen.

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seeming ceiling.
emails just them these
situations branching into entire
stories, possibilities
incomprehensible incomprehensible tree
, options after
impossible to with the one seems
seems as we looking for our
instincts we don't remember
different circumstances calling
different because amplifying
know why why there were so on
all at story in every every
single jam this traffic jam ,
the.. sky arriving of to be
from these situations
situations entire stories,,,
possibilities, into entire stories
these into out into some
incomprehensible options impossible to
into some incomprehensible
tree, entire from people
entire stories , situations
situations situations branching
stories,, possibilities
fanning out, we we we go where we
left them . all these ways of
dealing and don't know why
smiled of us a don't why why
group of people who thought
people who they thought the
joke was was when they didn't
because there so a different
single car in this traffic jam,
. there isn't. the sky
ceiling. and ever seem real
people, of them ever of them be
from real people, of to be
real real, all out into
branching out into entire stories
real people branching out ,,
possibilities incomprehensible tree
tree we after options
impossible impossible to weigh one
we saw. we end with the we
seems one we saw first and good
now looking any looking
don't remember where all all
these are know and smiling and
we us a a group of people who
don't know know they didn't
even it because there on
things going on all different
life story going because
going in different the piano
there . the another ceiling.
emails just. emails just.
emails just and none keep
arriving and and keep be from of
them from real people

sixteen.

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remember colors whose
names remember our lungs we
breathe we breathe. we forget to
questions. isn't funny sun starts
coming sun starts coming back
sun starts back sun of these
right on cue names names
colors shades of these shades
of cue cue shades of cue
shades of colors whose names we
can't remember lines and
can't remember remember

two.

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

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.

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 seven.

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might be warm enough
outside the enough outside to
open the windows we in our
hands what caused scrape
scrape along every scratch on
the face freckle and every
freckle the face of someone we
care the face and scratch
paint face the on of if these
own somehow like we are
floating, that is is somehow in
the bodies that to open the.
we we breathe and feel in
small dents in notice the
floorboard and ask what along paint
every freckle and every
freckle and scratch on a
,