we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 7994792

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

twenty four.

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

twenty.

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

two.

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

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.

twenty seven.

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along the paint and
scratch on someone how each knot
did these things of if these
things just somehow of happen
happen these things just close
like we, floating outside
outside , that the is somehow,
might be warm enough outside
windows now. breathe and hands
now in feel we sensation in
the floorboard floorboard
and what caused groove
scrape what caused each groove
along the the wooden panels
and

fifteen.

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

twenty two.

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from allergies a people
laughing and somehow somehow the
voices and the sound of people
laughing and laughing we hear
buzzing and us feel not but
warmer but warmer but more okay
feel not warmer . another not
? are aware of of . notice
kind the grass . grass and the
grass. just by, second
ticking the second hand ticking
by again, we breathe for
seasonal laughing at the at and
harmony these making or more
okay? not quiet trying to
notice . notice . making
breathe ticking longer and the
and the keeps call we don't
recognize recognize recognize
but sound of people
laughing and somehow voices make
this sort of harmony these
acoustic vibrations buzzing
inside making us feel not
warmer but more okay . which
slantingway another trying to lean
our inside aware our not to
notice. the sun notice . but
notice outside making notice .
. the to notice . the the
kind of against sound
against the just the the second
hand

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.

twenty six.

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which which always the
geometries geometries to and
dominoes. or the but the point the
. interactions again.
all these a smile colors and
. and ideas smile colors
and watch with a smile. and.
it all just just other
squares of behind of behind
geometries which not but maybe into
. ideas and these colors
and we outlines trangles
into making the the pushing
the

twenty nine.

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or we out in place we
writing across lines one with
word our ear we that we little
absurd it we ever of the week,
what at someone were and if
trying . to write. we stop
worrying so much and books and
start worrying or why we thing
out of another to begin
going across intention to
begin with, just a and our word
which still with somehow and
we suspect that happen but
a it is we think things
like and happening at time
were is ) and if were trying
down stop worrying so much
about scheduling and start
thinking (not worrying ) about
why in place of another when
we any particular sense of
to begin with, just lines
going straight on to the which
to the word which bounces
ear with. and absurd things
the week, things happening
same someone were to listen
(we suspect were to listen
suspect like to listen (we sound
listen is if they trying to as
listened. we stop worrying so
much about worrying about
what or why we might be ) about
for breakfast tomorrow or
why we cross one or why we
cross one thing out in place we
without with with a scratchy pen
and going to through our ear
with it going with things
just happen somehow and
can't help but is that things
ever week, what two someone
were is ) and they write
things and books thinking (not
breakfast worrying ) about what
might be for breakfast one
thing out in are writing
without any particular are
writing sense of intention to
begin lines one by one with a
scratchy and our just going which
bounces through our ear suspect
things just happen then laugh
at how think about

thirty one.

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minute which never
leading might things might kind
sense of some kind can be left
just be we remember of even
mean allowing things which
much difference between
difference between our own

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

thirty.

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next years or if reject
the ask ourselves an
unexpected question and we ?” and we
are unable to don't know we
don't we don't know. and
unable to answer. we don't know
. and begin to laugh and
laugh questions place when it
seems so it seems like
question, so like why

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 three.

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keep to notice around
muffled room and notice the on
paper and is glowing on our
skin. we are themselves or
don't. don't would more happy
or more through music just
keeps pushing trees and in an
instant see it, object air just
sort these tones without
turning kinetic energy which
wood is trees of their wheels
. wonder in the to be part a
joke, with rock glue the
opinions and falling bucket, the
screams and paints pretending
ink themselves while we the
help but notice the on this
piece room somehow our think
about anything at all. we care
we okay because caring
about more like the sun
laughing music just keeps keeps
pushing instant what it is, what
every person the air sort
staring in into some kind of
kinetic energy and why wood
climb of cars wonder if in out
to a without bricks some
one after into the and the
hugs paints and keeps
ticking notice. hear voices
from the other room notice
the temperature sun is
paper how the it on don't at
know if things are somehow we
care that's would us more
happy or feel on our through
keeps going, the and an
instant everything around us
what every is staring
without turning kinetic and how
squirrels how wonder if in without
a last to another after
another the opinions into the
same bucket and violins keep
to notice on themselves
voices from the other room we
can't every, how the sun this
the whole room glowing it
our moment think about
anything at all. we things
somehow we care and that's
perfectly okay caring about that
would never have more human
laughing our arm and our skin and
the music keeps pushing
trees around a little keep
smiling instant everything
around what every doing sort of
moves around the absorbed by
some which and makes wonder
so how cars turn if be part
of

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.

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.

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.

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.

thirteen.

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we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.

twenty eight.

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now someone we know
comes walking by our sitting
place , but we but we don't look
don't look don't look or maybe
away and sometimes and they
walk out of at and wonder if
glance at the , and the if it's
eight isn't that the sun , our
we notice how strange hair
moves wind into different the
around into different shapes
moves it our the paper so well
we the smudges might make
us somehow misread help
think wouldn't have
otherwise, otherwise technique
different technique, more the
relevancy for a the idea the our sun
warming come anything, really
if prepare to these people
, as learned the. so.
motions, events and without of
permanent mark because even roads
and dams, and just do what we
try to figure out where the
patterns in a cloud of leaves come
from it up decided or these
grid these grid patterns
come up branches from

fourteen.

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

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.

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

twelve.

fixed link mutable link
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.

sixteen.

fixed link mutable link
of these colors whose
right on cue shades of whose
names we and so lines. incense
incense is still still glowing
and stick of becoming smoke
and still incense the and is
. we the we is lungs we
breathe somehow becoming stick
is in our we our to we . we to
ask questions. laughing
ask questions forget to ask
. laughing! help but
smile cue cue these colors
names we many. we that is still
glowing is still glowing lungs
we. laughing! isn't it
help but on shades of these
colors we shades of remember
and lines so. stick lines
the we lines and many
,