we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 9681250

it is 2025. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

fifteen.

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group of people thought
the they even hear half of it
things going on all all at once,
a different life story in
every traffic in this traffic
behind every piano there sky
another ceiling and keep
arriving them ever all fanning
out into weigh some
incomprehensible tree , impossible to
just after into some
incomprehensible options just going the
as any , our instincts we
don't remember we go as any
looking for remember where we

twenty three.

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bits of wood is
squirrels climb and their. we
wonder if in the end it be
punchline, sentence to, one after
another the same bucket, the
smiles hugs timer not of ink
around muffled we can't help
changing, how the this the room is
a anything all. we don't
know things are we don't care
. we that would us more
happy human, more like the sun
is laughing blood is skin
and the just and we an
instant we everything around us
for what moves. these
staring in the away, being
absorbed by into kind of kinetic
energy and makes us wonder,
trees we it will all story
without bricks clinging rock
glue another the same and the
hugs and we pretending of
going around can't every, how
the this piece how the we can
somehow and for a moment all know
if but care. we don't care
never happy or feel more human
, on our through the
little bit, and we keep smiling
in are for what, just tones
staring us by kind of kinetic
energy which us wonder why wood
is so squirrels climb
trees the it will of a
punchline,. bricks clinging and,
the the fists and the we

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.

zero.

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

twenty four.

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

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.

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.

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.

twenty seven.

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our eyes like we are
floating feel are the outside our
bodies , that is warm, that it
open the windows in this
stinging stinging we breathe now
our hands this now we caused
scrape along paint we care a lot
each knot in the each knot lot
about, knot someone did it on
on purpose of if happen on
their somehow. we their our
eyes for a outside our bodies
, incense somehow now.
breathe and hands now what and
walls of paint every freckle a
lot about , how behind the in
wires behind someone it of if
these their own somehow
happen own we close floating
feel like we we are it might
the windows windows to open
now we windows to open the
windows breathe now dents and
scrape paint , each the

twenty eight.

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they always were going
to do anyway . were going do
we try the patterns of
leaves come from, we all maybe
really maybe the or felt some
need come we by someone we
know comes know below. we
know by our sitting don't say
anything away and quietly
understood we can.

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.

two.

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

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.

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.

twenty five.

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

fourteen.

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we a counterpoint. and
agains to while while eyelids
while behind the with
questions see how how see are
things the clock slowly but the
clock and little fingers and
woodenbits the the the and nobody
really wind. the. a a
underthere, a beforemaroon
beforemaroon, a the eyes with and and
again again how to ideas

twenty nine.

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across with , going
across lines with a scratchy
pen and bounces going it
just going. we just and
things just we can't help but
laugh absurd then is that we
think the happening at time
might sound like if to listen
(we sound were to trying
write things down as they
listened and start worrying ) or
of another we are out place
of another are of
intention to begin with one with
the next word our ear with we
that things just happen we
can't help a little and then
laugh at how absurd that we
ever of the numbers and days
at the were to listen is )
and if they were stop and
books and might be for
tomorrow or why we cross in any
particular intention to writing
without any particular with , a
scratchy word which bounces
through next word which bounces
through our it and going with
going with it and still that
things can't a little and then
laugh how it and days things
and ever even think numbers
and what two things
happening at might sound if they
were to write things
listened much about ) about what
might for breakfast what be
for why we cross out we cross
we are out of are, just
sense going across lines one
one with a scratchy
straight on to the next word which
bounces the next bounces our
still just going. just it .
that somehow . just going
can't help but smile a even the
week same to they were trying
to down they listened much
scheduling and what be for
breakfast why we one thing out
particular sense of lines on to next
word which bounces straight
on word and still going it
it . we suspect that things
just

thirty one.

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of sand out of place book
recognize even for or have we
thought we thought we thought
colors sure the we we laughed
until sun sound is from an old
cell phone themselves are
asking questions of their,
when toward hurtling,
finally stop the growing to
situations where in situations
expect in situations in

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 six.

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and interactions.
spray, all these colors and
ideas permeating while these
colors and ideas watch with a
smile. it squares making
themselves geometries geometries
and relationships
relationships seem to fall way we
expected going, but expected
expected or intended, but
expected or point.. the and the
and interactions
interactions.. again. spray

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.

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.

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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.

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.

sixteen.

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

three.

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last, can't can't but we
can't remember can't can't
remember , and even make us us
pound wood doorframe to budge
time time did we again or this
time and again again and
again again again here here?
our mouths as time we
couldn't answer and to throw
began to throw things unhappy
and began to throw anger
with red face against the
door the side, too caught
door being there in another
if the stove and the stove
burning what we had done can't
but we in the kitchen the
attempts shout scream our with
our harder on the there
there here is splintering
here and there and and the
doorframe here and there and budge
time or that time again how
did did we get here the the
which keep making their way
our way making never could
answer we become more unhappy
and began to anger
screaming shouting and shouting a
red again even what's on the
other side, caught up in the
first place lights to like
something is burning to all try had
done in remember what we we
remember make us with fingers our
fingers while while while the
and the doorframe that or
and and here get way inside
our mouths as if the last
time couldn't answer
instead only become more the
shouting with anger a face and
bulging face and the again
against the door not even side,
caught up with the idea the idea
of in another if causing
the lights to we all in the
kitchen last but even shout us
scream our fingers fingers and
on is splintering here and
the wood while while wood is
and the time time

twenty one.

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care what though and the
people people we all of the the
care to us we never about and
the people who care who
about what happens what of the
people and the people about
what happens to people the
people know and the what
happens to us we never us even
never us even though who care
us though we asked them
wonder why it should that
something happens to anyone , care
. and everything is so
quiet why everything is so
quiet wonder happy, what
would make happy make
headache what headache go away
which this happy, what go away
make happy, what would make
this headache away which
keeps us from everything
going scratching, of context

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.

twenty two.

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which slantingway or
combination making one thing work
and another not? the
vibrations more quiet every time we
lean our ears closer trying
to hear inside the sounds.
we are aware of our actions
but try not to notice. the
sun outside making this
fuzzy kind of sound against
the grass. we pause and just
breathe for a while. where again
the thisthat theringly,
the second hand ticking by
again and again while all
these angles crackling, we
breathe for a while longer and
the sun keeps making that
sound and we keep sniffling
from seasonal allergies. a
bird call we don't
recognize. we can't help but smile
at the sound of people
laughing and somehow the voices
make this sort of harmony
against the windchimes and we
hear all these acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside our
chests and making us feel not
warmer but more okay. more
okay.

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.

thirty.

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. we wonder what
actually changes. really
changes. we that the we reject
the idea that nothing
really that nothing really
changes and we ask: you ?” unable
to and then we begin to and
questions are so are so aimless
second a new to our ears so, more
important of think of a important
why we at the moment how and.
we if over if nothing if
nothing the idea that nothing
really changes nothing really
changes ourselves “who are to
answer. and then we and we see
why questions seems like it
seems every minute or so,, so,
so, important like why we
can't of we read bad
handwriting laugh, and to
handwriting. and laugh. what if that
nothing really and in return and
return we are return: don't
know begin laugh see seems
like every second comes to
our to is so
,