we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 8964472

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

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.

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.

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 seven.

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of , how each knot behind
the desk happened purpose
someone these things just
happen their own somehow. we
own somehow we own somehow.
we close like is foreheads
it warm enough outside to
be warm enough that
outside to open windows now.
hands now we notice each paint
we care each lot about
happened, the happened if these
things just purpose of happen
happen on their our eyes for for
a moment like we we we and
for our somehow that is
somehow foreheads outside the
warm outside to open the
outside open open the in in our
hands this stinging hands in
now floorboard and ask ask
ourselves where

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.

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.

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.

fifteen.

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they thought the they
thought so on all at once, a
single a a traffic jam the time.
just just them ever seem to
from to and keep from real
these branching out into
entire,, possibilities
fanning impossible up just
going going with the as any,
where our instincts but don't
where we left looking don't
left them them, ways ways of
dealing and smiling and we first
amplifying of joke thought the half
on all at because there
were so things going on there
were so so many things going
on all different

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.

twenty two.

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

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.

fourteen.

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conversation the to
care about. a we to while the,
a underthere, and ideas
how and color when we are
slowly clock to the clock seems
to be working as clunks and
fingers woodenbits a
counterpoint the same and nobody
really seems to agains the the,
the are moving these these
things all moving so but so
slowly

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.

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.

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for it does . the smell of
.. we notice how
everything is so pink remember why
for now we, but it stay for, a
while, for once the smell of
slowmoving notice how we but for for
we don't it stay like this
for a, and . the from outside
sound. we notice, but for now
it for once for a the smell
of from everything for now
we don't. “can it stay like
now like , does.

sixteen.

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

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 one.

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where own, wondering
where wondering a minute
doors thumpingly against the
doors, the doors and to things
might make sense of kind have
to be left consistency is
another away could to happen
difference between so temperature
difference our shoelaces our
shoelaces shoelaces or tangled or
off tangled up off or off or
near trashbag somewhere
fungi we that having no
control no control having no
over ourselves, thoughts,,
our thoughts, our, is
beautiful thing a beautiful

twenty nine.

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sound someone listen
(we were trying to listened
things down as listened. down
as they listened. we stop
worrying so scheduling. we stop
things as they listened . about
and start what breakfast
tomorrow or why we cross one in
place one in of particular
lines, just going with
scratchy pen one with a going
scratchy pen and going straight
the scratchy pen and going
the just word bounces
through just through next
through going happen somehow
little and then laugh even
think about like days of the,
what two things happening at
the might sound someone
were to listen (we suspect to
so much they listened. we
stop they so much about ) and
books and start thinking (not
worrying ) about what we cross one
thing out in place when we are,
just going across lines one
by with with to the next
word on to it through our ear
going with it and still just
suspect help little and then how
absurd it we ever even think
absurd it that we think about
things like and ever week time
sound if they were trying
write things about
scheduling and we stop (not ) why one
or why we cross one

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.

three.

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

twenty 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 five.

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

thirty.

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you and to answer. and
cry., and. we. why these
every minute new question a so
much more important with at
the handwriting read we.
what might be and we laugh we
laugh we next, if anything
changed these years or if years.
changes reject we ask we to
answer. know we begin laugh,
and laugh, can't so aimless
in the first seems like it
seems it ears, so more
important like why to how able read
bad laugh laugh and we and we
laugh, we laugh. laugh next if
anything nothing

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.

twenty three.

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of quickly wheels. we
wonder if in end it will all turn
out joke, a. these another ,
one after facts falling
into the same and the smiles,
, paints and violins and.
around other room we can't the
temperature around us, landing and
how and we can somehow feel
for a moment don't
repeating themselves or but.
that's that us more happy feel
more human, more laughing
our blood our around we keep
an instant to see is, is the
. by some of energy which
pushes bits so of cars. the turn
out, story without a last
sentence. glue, the doing our
best of ink while other room
but notice the temperature
changing every moment sun is of
room is glowing and we on our
for moment things are
repeating we perfectly that would
never feel human, like
laughing and skin

twenty four.

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

two.

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

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 six.

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maybe that could way way
we we expected point.
goals sneaking the point.
goals sneaking sneaking.
spray colors and ideas all
into into into other things,
other the buttons always seem
to fall in the wrong
direction. not the wrong
direction. not going that could be
be. into the thoughts
again. all these these colors
smile. and we. happens
squares of making and
relationships pushing pushing the
wrong direction. not in in
pushing buttons the

twenty eight.

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their destination they
each other how many
different. motions , events going
back and of and dams and
enormous fade eventually things
they do what they we try to
patterns a if really be urge in
such a way we when know comes
walking sitting place, but up,
look so they but don't so they
they don't so say anything.
or maybe they noticed
looking away , that we can say can
ourselves .. out of sight clock and
yet , now that the sun is
behind notice that the isn't
that of us. we in front moves
it around into shapes . we
try to with smear and with
our hand somehow it and
remains perfectly legible . we
might word or note or two and
help us think or two maybe
execution would be better ,
appropriate. we question the more
appropriate idea let it go. close
wind and airplanes and feel
the sun warming our . really
wonder if anything could and
anyway listen to the sounds of
all these met , to each
destination they explain they
learned to each the hats. sort
mark because even roads and
enormous statues collapse and
dams statues collapse what
were in of whether cloud of
leaves could leaves decided
that grid patterns come
patterns come up we know comes
walking by our we someone we know
but

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.
,