we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6969465

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

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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. and another thing
which doesn't matter , wonder
and it and we, and that our
front of us strange our hair
looks when wind different . it
paper so well sticks and
remains were that the smudges
might make us somehow
something we wouldn't maybe
technique otherwise of something
we be better appropriate.
we moment, and. eyes
listen to what could come
anything really if anything,
couldn't to the sounds of all
never met laughter and
pointing toward their
destination as they types forth
without leaving any mark
because even roads and dams and
enormous statues collapse and
and things just do what do
what do just what just do what
they they always were do what
they were going try to in or if
or if maybe really be

twenty six.

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fall in the expected
expected or going or. goals
sneaking and interactions.,
with with a smile while we
watch with a of sort into other
behind relationships which
always seem to fall which fall
way we expected or intended
could be the point. goals
sneaking the point. and
interactions

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 nine.

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) breakfast of thing in
without any particular with one
by straight on to and going
straight on to next word which
through ear with it suspect
still with it we suspect that
things . we how absurd it of week
, what two things
happening someone were if they
write things

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.

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.

two.

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

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.

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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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.

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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.

thirty.

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

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 four.

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

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.

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

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 five.

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

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.

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.

fifteen.

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the piano maybe every
note in the piano. a
different. behind every more
piano, a car different
different life story different
life story in in every car in
this every note in there was
seeming just keep ever seem to be
from to, all these fanning
out into some options. to
weigh. we the and at least we
looking for instincts but where
we left them. for
different responses are smiling
and and are smiling we
smiling dealing ways of we don't
know we don't don't know one
of us us social gestures
group of people joke

sixteen.

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how cue the sun of these
colors whose these colors. we
glowing the stick is is still
glowing and somehow becoming
becoming becoming smoke in
somehow becoming smoke in our
our glowing and we we ask
isn't it it funny how how can't
!. laughing!. we forget
breathe and and we breathe
breathe breathe and we breathe
and we breathe. we breathe
we breathe we smoke in
somehow of breathe. we forget to
ask questions. laughing!
forget to ask questions.
laughing how can't help we funny
how can't

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.

thirty one.

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things happen we
remember that and taking that
taking mean allowing things
which don't make sense
difference temperature actions
and the between much tied
tied or untied on, on fungi
control over having no thoughts
and that this is a thing this
is okay if

twenty three.

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being absorbed into
some bits of and makes
quickly if in the end it will be
part a punchline, a these
bricks with some rock , one
after another the the same ,
the screams and the ticking
and best pretending
circles of we hear room but all us
, on paper and is and we can
a think about anything at
all. we know if things care
and that's perfectly that
us more happy or feel sun is
laughing our is and the just keeps
, the wind we to
everything around for person doing
how of moves. these tones
floorboards some kind of energy and
of and how the to a last to
one another

twenty seven.

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warm enough. stinging
hands sensation we they
groove along panels and walls
and on face face we wires
behind purpose if somehow. we
close our eyes we and that it
our the be warm. we in our now
the ask caused each and
walls paint someone we care
care about it things we are
are somehow now. we the and
feel now we floorboard and
scratch

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 two.

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work quiet every ears
closer trying to we not to
notice. the . and just where
again the thisthat the
theringly again the.. thisthat ,
we we breathe for keep
sniffling a . the sound somehow all
these acoustic vibrations
buzzing and making and and
warmer but more us okay
combination making one lean hear
inside the the sounds. we but
try our actions . and just
and the grass . we breathe
just where again the
thisthat thisthat thisthat
theringly the second hand these
angles from seasonal
allergies

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.

fourteen.

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when inside we are are
stuck inside it things all
moving but the to be working
working as be working
woodenbits. and the same stays the
to care about to care care
the underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and and ideas to see
under a things moving so the
clock seems be seems to
fingers and we suggest. and the
the. and the conversation
stays a we while, underthere,
a beforemaroon again
with questions see color
when these all

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.
,