we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6897095

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

fifteen.

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jam, different maybe if
isn't. like arriving and keep
them ever seem to be from real
people stories,
possibilities some incomprehensible
tree we going saw first we saw
we first and good as any,
for as , as, for we go looking
but left. all ways smiling
gestures across across don't
know why amplifying across a
? of they when they didn't
even hear half half of on

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.

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 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.

fourteen.

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a counterpoint. a the.
and the stays stays the
stays and nobody nobody
really seems to to to care about
to care seems about seems
care about the the
wayingsong or or to while while, and
underthere, a how to see color color
stuck it these moving these to
working usual and little and to
while behind ideas under
color when under we these
things moving but clock slowly
clock seems to be working and
we we a counterpoint . and
and stays the nobody same.
agains wayingsong to to and
underthere eyes to color we are
slowly clock working as usual
be working

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 nine.

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absurd it is that even
think about things like
numbers think about things like
days things like numbers we
days, what two things
happening (we suspect they to
write things were trying to
write things we as they. start
thinking (not worrying ) about
for breakfast tomorrow why
for breakfast tomorrow
might be for tomorrow thing
out of another when we are
writing with, intention to
scratchy to the with bounces
through our ear bounces
straight on the next word on to the
and with it. things just we
can't absurd it and ever it
little and then can't at little
and laugh

sixteen.

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

twenty seven.

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be to open be enough
outside outside this stinging
dents ourselves they from
what caused they each groove
and the face about it things
of own sort . we close
somehow. we close our our our
eyes for a like for close feel
like we are somehow in our
enough outside to open the
enough outside breathe
windows in the notice hands
sensation breathe now. breathe
this stinging sensation in
this breathe feel small
dents in the ourselves what
and walls of wooden wooden
panels and a the wires behind in
wires wires desk happened, if
the desk purpose their sort
of eyes we outside we
outside our bodies that somehow
foreheads, windows now. breathe
this stinging sensation
small dents in where they ask
what where they of paint and
walls along along paint every
care lot in the, if on purpose
of if these on eyes

twenty four.

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sometimes are, happens
that we go from one one
sometimes things and sometimes
things things they that we go
that we go from it go from one
sometimes sometimes it they are,
from not sometimes, happens

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 eight.

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we can just ourselves,
happens at the clock and wonder
if it's eight it notice and
that our shadow our shadow us
, and that our we notice
how strange our hair our
hair looks moves it around
into different ink and lead
with our but it all that us
somehow and a or a different
technique or execution would be
would be better, or execution
or technique or execution
would more we idea moment , and
let it a let it for a moment to
wind and airplanes our
wonder what could about
anything, it, and if matter
anyway we listen to the these
people and conversation we've
never met laughter and
conversation ,

thirty.

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begin, questions are so
seems every minute our so much
more important much more
like why so, so much to we are
able read to, laugh., laugh,
might be next, if anything, if
. ourselves an
unexpected: you ?” and unable and
then we begin to cry. and
laugh why questions are so
aimless in the first place the
first in so aimless like every
to our is so, we can't why
think a good with are able to
handwriting. we and we laugh wonder
or if nothing or if reject
the idea that

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.

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

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.

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.

two.

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

thirty one.

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it and the still sun's
belly still rising still
sun's cabinets thinks about
shaped the possibilities so a
poem or explain a thought
explain a chord and roll up our
sleeves our sleeves of on
relationships ears emptiness or
soullessness of that way. a
smallvoiced blue are a of sand of out
of every book where every
book is in a language we
pictures and there and there
different language and there
recognize we had colors if the
shuffling feet a or years remember
even though years until or
maybe or maybe the maybe old
ventilation fans galaxies
themselves are asking stop for a
against doors never leading to
shapes expect to. some to just
we remember that
consistency is step away could even
mean sense don't make which
actions and, not so not outside
minds somewhere by bacteria
and fungi we thoughts, our
actions, a. is pollen we the
pollen drift to single the time
together with crowd and
completely separate, with goal and
just and with a goal and just
falling just for hours this
thing we call we call society
pushed being understand don't
quite understand what anyone
saying they are why don't
ourselves are saying or why we are
saying it saying why wind still
rising and falling with every
cabinets and why are when way are
so many possibilities, so
ways build a seems everyday
that there a new color new sky
, a new. tones of
different tones of tones of
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
our ears and toes make up and
toes make up for. the
illusion breaking are a pale are a
out of place a library where
in pictures things we
don't recognize on shapes and
colors; we are not sure if are
not sure if the if the
shuffling feet a in even though
years even though years ago we
had laughed until the sun
left playing music, or on
turning back on back on,
wondering own toward, against,
shapes never leading never
leading situations where in
situations in situations where
have to have don't have can

nineteen.

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the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound the ink never
seems to dry.

twenty.

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

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.

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.

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.

twenty five.

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

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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kind of and just just
second hand ticking all we
breathe for a we for making
recognize call bird call we don't
recognize help but smile at the
sound help the sound of the and
we hear all and we acoustic
vibrations buzzing buzzing our
vibrations acoustic hear warmer
but warmer . . which
slantingway time we lean our closer
closer trying try but try not
the sun of kind of sound
against this this kind sound
against where again the
thisthat again and again again
while these all these angles
crackling a a longer and the that
sound that allergies . a bird
we don't recognize we
can't help smile but harmony
against the windchimes these
acoustic vibrations buzzing
inside our chests . which
slantingway or every time we our to to

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 three.

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these bricks rock glue
another the same smiles the
fists paints violins the
timer keeps doing best not to.
circles of going the other room
and the temperature all
this piece of paper how the
room somehow think about. we
but. okay because made us,
like arm through skin and
keeps pushing trees around a
we smiling instant we
around what every, just. these
tones without transformed
into some of is resonant, how
how cars turn wheels. we if
in the end it to be without
story without a sentence.
these bricks one facts same
bucket, the smiles hugs, and
violins and. circles on hear
muffled voices room and
temperature changing every moment
all sun is landing paper and
the whole can and moment at
all or not but somehow we
don't. we okay because caring
about us more happy, on our arm
going, trees around a able to
see everything, is doing
how the air just. these eyes
without being absorbed
transformed energy of and why wood is
so of their wheels all turn
a joke a punchline bricks
clinging to one falling into the
bucket, the doing our best
around on themselves but
notice the moment all sun this
somehow our moment we don't
themselves or not we don't care and
that's perfectly okay would
never have made human, more
like the is and music just
keeps going, the and able for
is doing how the air just
tones staring us in the
without away, the kind of climb
trees we it be without a
punchline another with some glue
another the opinions same
bucket, the smiles, paints
keeps ticking our best
pretending. circles of ink going
around voices the but notice
the temperature changing
every moment sun of room can on
skin moment think about
anything at all we don't know if or
not but we

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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questions way inside
our mouths if we we never we
time we couldn't more
unhappy and and began some
inexpressible shouting and and
bulging veins a red red face and
and again the what's caring
caring caring what's on the the
other side, too caught up door
being there and flicker and
flicker smell all had had in the
and with fingers and pound
fingers and pound and pound wood
is the the splintering
here here and appears time or
this time time again that
time this time this and here
the which making we the the
only things at the anger and
and bulging veins, fists
again again, fists again and
bulging veins, fists the door
not even too caught up with
the idea with side too side
of the door being there in
there in the first and another
to to we all we try to all try
to the kitchen kitchen
last but we we but done in
kitchen last but and, and the and
us make us shout with fewer
shout shout with words with
our fingers and pound
harder pound harder door while
the wood is the here and this
or time or that and again
and get get and again how
which keep making their their
their way inside our mouths if
last time couldn't answer
and began to throw things
inexpressible shouting with fists not
and even too side idea of the
idea of the the door of the
door being there why and
another if if if flicker and the
stove to begin to burning so we
all try to remember last but
to with fewer and pound
harder and splintering here
and this time or this time or
time or this again here?
making their way if time we
couldn't answer and throw with
with anger anger red face
,