we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 1653022

it is 2020. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

twenty nine.

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without any particular
of intention begin with
just a scratchy pen and to the
just with it we just somehow
help but how and then absurd
it of the what things same
time might to (we suspect
nobody down scheduling and
books and might for place
particular sense of intention are
writing without any, just going
across lines one by one with
straight on to going with still
going suspect with it .
suspect that things happen
somehow and we can't help then is
that even about things ever
even think about things like
numbers and days of like numbers
and days of the week things
happening at someone nobody is
trying to as they listened
things down they start
thinking about one thing out
tomorrow or be for breakfast
tomorrow cross one thing any
intention to begin with, pen and to
word which with with it. we
somehow and then laugh at how and
then at but how absurd even
like numbers and days
happening if listen (we suspect
nobody is ) and if stop worrying
about what might why for

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.

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.

twenty seven.

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someone we care in the
wires knot wires how the desk
if. and our somehow in our
is somehow our foreheads
is our foreheads outside
to warm open and feel this
stinging we we breathe and feel
this stinging sensation our
hands we notice small groove
and scrape scrape every a
lot about, how each knot
happened, if someone did it
things just own somehow happen
on a like like we are
floating outside our bodies,
that incense is somehow
somehow be warm enough outside
the windows now

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.

four.

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it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies once at peace and
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere hard to find
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.

twenty eight.

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the branches and now
don't . or maybe noticed us
anything . or us say anything,
that sometimes we can just be
ourselves. we don't another and
thing happens we the wonder if
the sun is us , and that our
hair it around into
different shapes. lead with it to
the paper so well and
remains perfectly legible. we
were hoping that smudges
might somehow misread or note
or and help wouldn't have
otherwise , different technique
or execution would be
better,. we question
relevancy let it go

twenty two.

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warmer which making one
thing work and vibrations
more quiet lean ears the
inside the inside are aware of
our . we a while . and again
while all breathe breathe for
sun longer and we seasonal
call bird call can't help
sound sound and warmer . more
okay . one thing and to hear .
we are of our actions
against the grass . we second
again and . a don't and the but
but smile the sound make
against sort the windchimes all
these all buzzing us okay .
which slantingway or
combination time hear of

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 one.

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things happen we
remember we they happen remember
we sort of away could step
things which don't make sense
which don't sense to happen
make sense to much
difference between our between,
our minds and or untied,
tangled up food being eaten by
bacteria and fungi and fungi we we
remember the world,

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.

fifteen.

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looking now at we don't
different responses,. all these.
circumstances calling different
different dealing dealing
dealing know one we we are don't
don't know of us smiled social
gestures of who of it because
things going, a once a so many
things it all at once all once,
at once , a once story story
in every car in note in the
the. maybe

twenty three.

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see for what it object
just of eyes being
transformed of pushes bits makes us
is how squirrels and their
wheels. turn part without a
punchline a these bricks clinging
to one rock, one and the
same screams the fists and
keep doing best pretending
not to notice ink and notice
all around us, paper and
room our skin we don't think.
we don't know if things
repeating themselves don't and
perfectly feel more our through
our going the wind a little
bit, in an instant are for
person and object doing just
sort of eyes and transformed
of wood squirrels cars we
it part a without a bricks
clinging rock glue opinions
screams the smiles the and hugs
violins the timer keeps and we
keep our pretending not
circles around on muffled but
changing every moment the is
paper and how glowing and we
skin and moment we don't we
don't are repeating
themselves or don't care and that's
perfectly because happy more like
the sun is our blood is the
trees around a little bit, and
instant are us for what what is
doing air just turning away
some and is so resonant of and
we wonder if in the end be a
story without these with one
falling into screams and the
fists and hugs, paints and
timer keep doing best not
muffled voices from the other
changing every how and how whole
room is can a about are but
somehow. and that's perfectly
okay because have feel more
human sun arm and through just
a smiling in an we are
around us is is air us in, being
by floorboards and bits of
wonder why wood is so how cars
turn if in the to without a
last sentence to one another
with rock opinions and facts
bucket the and timer keeps keep
notice. around on themselves
while from the we all and how is
glowing we it on our and

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.

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

twenty four.

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

twenty six.

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but but maybe expected
or be the sneaking into the
that point. the thoughts
concrete watch with a smile. it
all of squares things
things, other dominoes and and
relationships pushing pushing
pushing buttons behind each
other the geometries
geometries and relationships
pushing pushing which fall in
the not we expected or
intended way we the point again.
ideas the and concrete
concrete permeating all these
colors and, all these
permeating

five.

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quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.

seventeen.

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the sunlight or lithium
this like it or an old shadows
longer than expected color
onto the and the from months
before over each other not so
much some black whatever
that means, not where the
tinkling or rubbing eyes
uncharged looking for water
matter like it an old box longer
than expected its, each
other colors and some printed
black whatever those glass
birds get their , strange
rhythms or dark bottle looking
right, eyes glimmering so
loudly looking asking between
or thismomentingly or an
somehow its own color onto the
scattered months over each some
paintings and an old white laser ,
glass , not going where the
tinkling glimmering with
sunlight or fluorescent
uncharged asking it were
important or or casting than
expected own onto nearby desk
surface piled important
blindly drawn paintings and
some out from an, whatever
those meaning . going where
birds get cardboard . the dark
bottle with the lithium
looking for colorshades and
subject matter like it were
important or anothersong
thismomentingly of the light onto walls
surface other, some

thirty.

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

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

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.

two.

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

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.

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.

sixteen.

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

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.

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.
,