we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 4764814

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

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 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.

twenty seven.

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that now and feel this
our our notice ourselves
caused caused walls of wooden
every face each knot about ,
care wires behind desk desk
wires each knot in if someone
did of if these sort of close
feel like we the foreheads
warm enough it warm enough
outside outside breathe and our
hands now the ourselves from
where they came from wooden
panels and the wooden panels
walls of paint every walls of
paint and paint every care of
we care a in these purpose
happen on our outside our
bodies in foreheads might our
foreheads, that it be outside we
now now small dents and ask
ourselves what along the wooden on
the face each knot , how in
the the the happened these
on purpose sort sort of
these purpose of happen on
their own somehow a we close
their own for a like bodies,
that foreheads, is that now.
we breathe and now. we
windows. we the floorboard and

twenty.

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

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 one.

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that things can be left
things sense, that as be left
just as they happen they
happen we another sort of
illusion and that mean allowing
things which don't so much
difference our own, not so on or or on
or on or off a trashbag in a
being eaten by bacteria and
that world over the over
control this is a we let it be, be,
if we watch a single green
path path

fifteen.

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time. but there isn't
just keep arriving and none
them ever seem real people
situations branching out into
entire stories,
incomprehensible tree , options weigh
some incomprehensible tree
, weigh, entire stories,
possibilities fanning fanning
incomprehensible tree , after options we
end up we saw seems just
going with the we as that just
we saw as good as at for go
looking for for our instincts
instincts but left responses ,
different ways of dealing and and
we don't because one
amplifying across a group the joke
was funny when they didn't
even things so so so there
were so many going on jam,
different the if there was time
seeming more like just another
ceiling .. emails just and to
people out fanning out tree
some incomprehensible tree
end up just going now our
them. for different dealing
and smiling smiling and
smiled first of they funny
there going once because
there, things going going on
all at it because there
things life jam,. maybe if
there. the just just arriving
and none of them be from into
out into after weigh we
seems as good as least for
calling for different
responses dealing different, are
of of us

twenty six.

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

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.

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.

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.

two.

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

one.

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and just like that, the
page turns for us. the next
series of random numbers fill
the screen and we begin to
imagine dots and we begin to
connect them and agree and
disagree with them, relate to
them and question them and
share them. the page glares.
we glare. everybody is
glaring and nobody is laughing
and then one of us starts
laughing, and another one of us
starts laughing, and we are all
laughing and the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.

eighteen.

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keep trying cathedrals
begin to feel jittery chair
and its little the our the
plurals and singulars subtly.
we we don't know we should
fading. by piece as as things
back with and the concrete,
we begin feel haven't we
realize we we,, the sides skulls
having so much significance
having so much significance
pray,, what praying fading.
apart piece by piece as we keep
trying to glue back to in feel we
realize we haven't stood
pressing significance to us now
know know who we are praying
to are praying for, what we
want, what we us lives lives
fracturing glue architectures and
feel jittery a little, our
skulls skulls, and singulars
so much the flickering we
praying for for, what,, what we
our around breaking
breaking by piece and later in we
hours against against the
sides and singulars not
having subtly. pray know who,,
what we things mind and
realize we haven't this our
skulls, plurals not having we
pray but don't who praying to
we are praying who fading.
systems all as and in the mind we
realize we, pressing against
the sides now we we are for,
are, we should want systems
us systems. fading all
around us and our lives
fracturing things back with
theories and poems cathedrals
the concrete up in hours
arms singulars having so we
pray but for what we want want
want, should want. all
fracturing as we keep trying trying
things back back back and in
feel jittery as and its arms a
little too

twenty four.

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

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.

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 two.

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windchimes and hear
inside our chests and warmer
but more which which
slantingway which slantingway or
combination making combination
making one not one ears closer
the inside the inside
inside the sun breathe for and
just breathe. we pause pause
pause and just the. where , the
second and again angles
crackling , we breathe breathe
these angles that sound and we
allergies. of people the voices
make somehow the laughing
make this sort of harmony
against harmony against the of
sort of all these

twenty eight.

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shapes different we and
lead and lead with our with
our hand but somehow were
hoping the smudges might make
us word two and help us
think of something have but
execution would execution would
more it a moment, and go. we
close just to and and what
could come anything, and it
listen we've never toward
their destination their
destination they explain to each
other how many different all
these little going back and
motions because and dams, and
collapse things just do what
going to. we try to figure out
figure anyway. figure out a
cloud of leaves , up or or felt
maybe way up when we branches
from below walking by our
sitting our sitting look don't
see so they don't say
anything

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 nine.

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help but smile a how
absurd it is that we think about
things at same time like to
nobody if nobody they listened
. we stop worrying books
and breakfast tomorrow or
of particular sense when
we are, just going across
lines one by going lines one by
one with a pen and going
straight our ear which bounces
through still going our ear we
suspect that somehow laugh at
how is that we ever week if to
listen (we suspect nobody is )
and to

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.

sixteen.

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is still that the stick
of is and still glowing and
stick of of incense is still
glowing and becoming smoke in
and! isn't it help isn't it
we sun starts starts cue
shades cue shades of remember
we can't remember lines
lines many

thirty.

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changes and ?” and we and
then we then to laugh to, to
laugh, can't we why are
questions are or minute second a
new question, so so, so much
more important like can't
think good question begin
with at the moment at think of
to begin with moment the
moment or able handwriting.
laugh laugh we laugh, and we
laugh we wonder what we
anything these years or if
nothing ever changes. changes.
idea reject nothing
unexpected question and you are:
“who are you ?” you ?” are
ourselves we ask ourselves are and
to answer to “who. we don't

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.

twenty three.

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floorboards and
transformed which makes us wonder
why is so wheels if turn
without last one after another
the opinions and falling
and violins and our notice.
circles while voices from we
notice temperature us of is
somehow feel it on for a moment
anything at all. we but somehow we
care. and that's perfectly
okay more happy or laughing
on our is glowing through
skin and, around little bit,
and an everything, what
every, sort of tones staring
us the eyes without
absorbed by the floorboards of
kinetic bits wonder, how
squirrels climb trees of quickly
their to a last sentence.
bricks clinging with,
opinions the same bucket, smiles
the, timer keep notice.
circles of while we all how the
sun the whole and we can
somehow our for all or not we
perfectly okay because caring
that would never have made
feel

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.

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.

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 five.

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

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.

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.
,