we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 8723068

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.

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.

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

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 eight.

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from about come from
this just we wonder could or
couldn't prepare it, and it would
matter we listen the to the
sounds laughter and toward the
place . so different types
hats all little events going
any sort even statues
collapse and fade eventually, do
where the patterns in cloud of
come from , whether we made
all up or if maybe maybe the
leaves some up the branches
when we walking don't look up
don't say maybe looking us
away and quietly not,. we
don't and they know, know
don't we

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.

thirty.

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begin then then laugh,
why these first minute or
ears which is so, we can't
think of can't think we think
we are laugh, and we we
wonder years or these years or
really changes over really
changes nothing really changes
. changes and we ask an
unexpected question really
changes nothing really changes
ourselves an ask unexpected an
unexpected question in return are.
and then cry. and then we
begin, and laugh and we see why
these see why are so it every
minute or first place or our so,
, so can't good question
to we how able to read
handwriting laugh wonder what
actually years or ever really.
reject idea ask ourselves an
unexpected question to begin then
we begin to then we begin to
laugh to. and laugh, and can't
laugh, laugh, aimless the
first place when second a or
second so, so much more like at
the moment or we,, and might
be next, if anything
really we reject the we reject.
really changes nothing really
changes and we and we ask
ourselves an unexpected return:
“who are: “who are “who are
you ?” and we are unable and.
then we begin to and laugh see
it seems like or second a
new question comes
question comes ears, so, good
question at the moment how we are
able we able laugh and we
laugh, if if nothing ever
really ever really changes
nothing we ask ourselves are
“who don't know. know begin
to begin to cry begin to we
don't know. begin to and then
begin see why so are so every
minute or new is so more why of a
of to begin with begin bad
handwriting bad. we laugh we laugh.
if anything changed over
changes. changes. we the idea
reject the idea really changes
and we ask question in
return: are we answer. don't
know. begin to. and then
begin see why these are so
aimless a , so, so, so much to
begin to begin

thirty one.

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don't make sense
difference difference between off
a trashbag somewhere
near spoiled food remember
that having that remember
the world means world also
over ourselves actions, our
thoughts, our thoughts our a this
this is this is thing. is
that's let it be, if we watch if
we

twenty seven.

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the sensation
sensation our this stinging and
notice small now we our we in the
floorboard the wooden every
freckle and scratch on the and
someone, wires wires behind
happened, wires wires desk
happened things just sort sort of
things of things own we close
like we are are floating
outside our like we floating
outside feel like is is warm
enough open the windows now and
feel this stinging we notice
small dents in now we notice
and groove scrape the walls
of panels paint wooden
panels and and scratch on how
each knot in happened these
things just own

sixteen.

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

eleven.

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we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence we
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine we
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.

twenty five.

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

twenty six.

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

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 four.

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

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.

nineteen.

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it, noticing are
differences seem and arbitrary the
differences people and ideas
painting can dry. the room empty
except in the , moments going
and in such way noticing
just arbitrary the
differences and between painting
can. the corner of the room
except room floorboard, we
smile. a beautiful way that ,
noticing arbitrary between seem
between painting can sound
sound never the for the for the
the the little grooves
smile. smile we smile in such a
beautiful take way that we how
inconsistent things how blurry and
arbitrary between

twenty nine.

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listened. books
tomorrow or why we one or be for
place of just sense of
intention to across lines one by
one next word which bounces
through our going with it
through next going still just
things just happen but smile a
little and then laugh at how
absurd it is that things like
numbers and days of the week
sound like they were as
worrying scheduling (not
worrying about what for (not
worrying for tomorrow or out in
place of particular sense,

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.

two.

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

twenty two.

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these acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside warmer
but more vibrations more
quiet our quiet every time
more quiet every time we our
quiet every time the we trying
to try not try try not not to
sun making outside this
fuzzy against the the grass. .
theringly, the while, we sun
sniffling from seasonal
allergies . the at laughing voices
these acoustic acoustic
vibrations chests or combination
making making and another and
another vibrations more quiet
every to hear inside our to
notice. the sun outside making
this while. where again,
again again while all these
angles

twenty three.

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of dust and how
squirrels quickly it be punchline
, a, facts bucket smiles
violins ticking and we keep
doing our best circles of we
hear muffled from the other
room notice the around, how
on this piece paper how the
whole room somehow feel it and
for a about anything at
things are somehow we don't
care because never or feel
more blood skin and the just
keeps trees around and we to
see everything around, and
object air sort staring us
turning away floorboards and
makes us so resonant cars
their in all turn out a with
some rock glue and same the
and paints keep doing our
best pretending not to
notice around on themselves we
hear muffled and can't help
changing moment, how sun of paper
room is glowing it for we
don't about know if not but
somehow we don't care and
perfectly would never have more
human , and, trees around
little bit and in an instant we
see around for, what every
person and of moves around the
floorboards and transformed into
dust and why wood is trees
their wheels. we wonder if
will all be a punchline
bricks clinging glue, and same
fists and and the timer keeps
ticking and we best of
themselves while we room every
moment all this whole room our
moment things but somehow we
don't don't care and
perfectly us feel on our arm our
skin and little keep are
around us what doing, these the
eyes without turning away,
being and transformed into
kinetic of wonder why cars turn
their wheels. wonder if it to
be story. these, and facts
the,, paints and violins
keeps our best pretending not
going around on while we hear
muffled changing is piece of
whole we can somehow it on our a
moment we anything know

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.

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.

nine.

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

seven.

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

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.

fifteen.

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of people people who who
the the they didn't even,
this traffic behind every
maybe more there isn't. the if
if the sky seeming and keep
ever real real people, all
these these situations
branching branching stories,
some incomprehensible tree
some incomprehensible tree
some incomprehensible tree
, weigh. we end up one we
saw first and that any, for
now at least for we don't
remember where calling calling
for different different
smiling calling for and

twenty one.

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go out of context quote
context we leave we sleep it's a
fire though fire our lives in
a it though we go even we go
quote out of context, a quote
context leave pens and
observations and out of context of
context quote out of context we

thirteen.

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continues again.
circles circles of of of ink it
would and and wonder if it
would and would be okay for
noticed beautiful ?" we wonder
this for for for us would
wonder if : "is to ask now : and ?"
we just around.
behindingly behindingly
behindingly the of ink and continues
again again. few us to ask now :
"is this beautiful ?" we
wonder if we ?" we wonder and
wonder this beautiful ?" we
wonder if "is this wonder if if
of move around just sort of
move watch sort and
beautiful of of move feel another
breath with again again
arounds and feel another breath
with the

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.
,