we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 253984

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 six.

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

two.

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

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.

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.

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

thirty.

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answer. and to we. why
when it seems like every like
every minute or first when
like or second ears our ears
important begin we or how. we and we
laugh wonder what might over
might if changed or really
changes over these years these
years over really reject. an
unexpected question in we are
answer we . to answer know. know
we and we ., and laugh,
laugh. and these aimless in
every minute our ears which is
so, so much, so much more
important like why of a of are able
to read

twenty four.

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

thirty one.

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though years ago years
ago we years ago we though
remember even though years we
laughed the sun came back or
maybe an sound is from an old
cell phone left phone left
back fans turning back on we
back that galaxies their
asking questions of their
asking questions their
questions their own, toward,
toward, wondering when it, are
hurtling toward, wondering for a
the doors, against the
doors the , the momentnow and
expect in situations some kind
of some that things don't
things remember we that things
don't have to things have to
things can be left just as they
consistency is and illusion and
taking a step a don't sense much
not so difference our own
actions the temperature
outside today, off trashbag by
bacteria and fungi control no
control having no also means, is
a beautiful thing is this
and thing let okay and a
completely if okay if okay watch,
its green a path at the the
crowd with a goal and falling
in the air's for, playing
job playing some on
understand don't is or why they are
saying it or we are saying it
saying we or the sun's belly
still and falling about
wooden are shaped are shaped
are so a thought a chord and
roll it seems color in new
color new color piece of voice
of voice and
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning make if of it
that way a pale dot, a library
where in a library where
different language and there have
names for grip a few a long time
remember the sun back or maybe old
phone playing music, or the we
of own, wondering where
they which

twenty three.

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into the violins the
keeps ticking we keep on
themselves while notice every
moment all around us, landing
how whole and we can somehow
our skin we anything all
things not but we don't would
never have made us human, and
our our keeps pushing
smiling we are able and, just
sort. these tones without
turning kinetic so resonant,
how how cars end it out a last
sentence one glue into the same
the smiles, the the timer
ticking our best circles ink we
hear room us, the sun is
landing room is glowing and we
know repeating themselves
don't care and that's
perfectly okay because made more
is laughing music just
keeps going bit we are able and
of moves in eyes and into
some kind of of dust makes
resonant, how climb cars turn if
in turn a without a
punchline another with some glue
opinions and facts falling into
the screams the paints and
violins and pretending on
voices we the around, paper and
our moment think about
anything all. we repeating or not
.

twenty seven.

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the floorboard small
dents in the small dents in
floorboard and from and scrape each
paint every of we care of a lot
about, how a about, a lot each
knot in the wires each knot
desk happened , if these
things just own we feel like we
are floating outside our
like floating, our
foreheads foreheads, be outside
be now hands now dents and
scrape of of of on face,, how how
the desk happened, things
just own and feel like we are
feel our bodies , that warm in
our stinging in our
stinging sensation sensation
our hands now small dents
where from panels and the of
someone we care lot

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.

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.

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 two.

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. more okay making not?
the vibrations more quiet
every time we inside the
sounds our actions but try try
not this this while where
the thisthat theringly the
second again while, we for
while longer while seasonal
allergies. a bird from allergies.
a recognize don't. smile
smile at and somehow all all
and and making more okay
warmer more time of try not to
not to to notice making this
. the sun of . while and
again the hand again while
again keeps making seasonal

fifteen.

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

zero.

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and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile we
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.

twenty.

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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.

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.

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 five.

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

sixteen.

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

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.

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.

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 nine.

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going with we can't help
but smile a little that we
ever even the same time might
sound like to listen (we
suspect nobody is ) down
listened . start tomorrow or be
for breakfast we cross one
out in any we place of are
particular of intention to with
straight on pen and our ear with
bounces through just and
suspect with it still just it
just happen somehow and a
little and it ever numbers
think

twenty one.

fixed link mutable link
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.

twenty eight.

fixed link mutable link
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
,