we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 7918433

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

twenty four.

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

two.

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

six.

fixed link mutable link
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.

eight.

fixed link mutable link
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.

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

seven.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fourteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

eleven.

fixed link mutable link
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 nine.

fixed link mutable link
pen straight the next
through our word which still
just going with it. we but
smile a somehow and then ever
even is that we absurd it ever
even think about numbers and
what two things happening at
like same , what two things
happening time like if someone
were to ) and trying to write
things down as and worrying we
cross one in place of sense
intention to across lines one one
to the next word which
bounces just going with we we
can't help but and then laugh
at how and week, what

sixteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

nine.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fixed link mutable link
okay okay ? quiet . we are
aware the sounds. inside the .
sun outside and. second
hand breathe for a while
longer and we keep sniffling
from sound and we we keep we
keep keep sniffling from
call we we a bird we don't
can't help but people
laughing at at the of but help but
smile of against the
windchimes windchimes and we
harmony against against the
vibrations buzzing inside warmer
but more okay . more one
which slantingway one thing
the every ears every closer
sounds our actions but but try

zero.

fixed link mutable link
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.

eighteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

twenty eight.

fixed link mutable link
smear the. smear the
paper and . we . we were hoping
might of something we but
maybe or technique or, but
maybe a or execution would be
better, appropriate. we. idea
of for a let. we our eyes and
just and just the wind and
airplanes the sun our legs. legs.
we from could couldn't
prepare couldn't prepare and ,
anyway we listen to

one.

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

three.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fixed link mutable link
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.

thirty one.

fixed link mutable link
time standing some
supposedly around hours some
vaguely defined is saying or
anyone ourselves we quite
understand we ourselves something
saying something it thinks
about wooden and when they the
there they way they are the are
there are there are so when
there are when there explain a
thought, so seems everyday
color in the sky color in new
color a piece, a sky garbage
our ears and toes make up for
think down again breaking.
the illusion breaking
smallvoiced reminder, a
smallvoiced reminder that we a that
we in a where a is in are
pictures and there are of there
are pictures of things for
when we thought when we

twenty six.

fixed link mutable link
concrete, watch with it
ideas permeating while we
watch with it all a of squares
and trangles into outlines
of other each other other
which pushing pushing the
wrong direction the way we
expected or the way we the point.
goals thoughts again. ideas
and, all these colors and
ideas all into sort behind
other things, shapes shapes
outlines shapes sort of making
themselves the geometries and
making themselves other the
geometries behind other things up
behind sort of making
themselves trangles into other
things things making
themselves the geometries and
dominoes which always always
seem to fall in the going the
to fall going or intended
intended, but maybe that could
intended that could way maybe
that intended. goals
sneaking into the thoughts.
goals sneaking into paints
these colors and concrete,
all these colors and ideas
watch with a all just happens
into into other things
making themselves pushing to
fall in we, but maybe goals
sneaking into the thoughts again
. ideas and interactions
interactions. spray,, spray paints
and watch with a just
happens

seventeen.

fixed link mutable link
marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.

twenty seven.

fixed link mutable link
we close our eyes for a
moment and feel like we are
floating outside our bodies,
that the incense is somehow
in our foreheads, that it
might be warm enough outside
to open the windows now. we
breathe and feel this stinging
sensation in our hands now we
notice small dents in the
floorboard and ask ourselves where
they came from what caused
each groove and scrape along
the wooden panels and walls
of paint every freckle and
scratch on the face of someone we
care a lot about, how each
knot in the wires behind the
desk happened, if someone
did it on purpose of if these
things just sort of happen on
their own somehow.

twenty three.

fixed link mutable link
and kinetic energy
which pushes bits of wonder
how quickly and in out a last
clinging rock glue another the
opinions and same smiles, paints
violins ticking and we best
pretending not circles of on
themselves the other room notice
the the on this glowing
somehow moment we but somehow.
perfectly okay because caring
about would never, is blood is
glowing our

fifteen.

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

thirty.

fixed link mutable link
much we why we of can't
think of a think at how we able
read bad handwriting. we,
laugh we laugh, laugh, and
laugh. we wonder what laugh
and we laugh, what we be next
, if anything actually
anything actually nothing ever
nothing ever changes reject.
really “who are ?” and we are
unable to are unable to answer
know then we begin to begin to
cry. we begin laugh
questions minute or second comes
which we can't of at or how
moment a good to the

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.

ten.

fixed link mutable link
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.

nineteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fixed link mutable link
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.

thirteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

five.

fixed link mutable link
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.

twelve.

fixed link mutable link
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away and we notice this
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
,