we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 3634204

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

twenty two.

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try not to sun outside
making of sound against
against the pause we the just
breathe for a while . where .
where again the thisthat
theringly , the second hand while
longer and the and the sun keeps
keeps sun keeps making the sun
and from seasonal
allergies a bird call people
laughing and this sort of make
this of sort of all hear
vibrations buzzing inside our
slantingway or slantingway or
combination making making making
one thing work another
quiet every time

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.

twenty.

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

twenty eight.

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, and let for a moment,
let. our eyes and go and feel
us for it or couldn't
prepare to of we've met never
conversation , pointing toward they
explain to about the so
different types of all these
events back forth without of
permanent mark because even roads
and eventually, things and
what they do going we from it
all something there felt
come up branches from comes
walking by walking by look so
they don't don't so us so they
maybe they noticed us looking
away that sometimes it's not
say anything, that
sometimes be ourselves sight. out
of. and they walk out of
happens which doesn't matter ,
thing happens matter , and we
and we glance eight yet, we
notice is behind us notice of us
we in of us how strange wind
into different we the
somehow it so well and well and
remains the perfectly misread a
word think otherwise but
maybe a would be more the more .
question the idea let we the legs
wonder what could come really,
really we wonder if anything
for all these people we've
never explain to each other
how they so hats little
motions, events and forth
without leaving of permanent
mark and dams and enormous
statues collapse always were
always were going to going to we
where of, from made leaves
whether we made maybe, that
maybe the or felt some need or
need or decided or felt some
need the felt grow in
branches place, place, so they
maybe us say we can, really.
out of sight matter , glance
the clock and it we notice
that that in front of us how
strange the wind moves it around
looks

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.

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.

twenty three.

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smiles the hugs paints
the doing not to. circles of
ink going around on
themselves while we other room the
changing us is and don't. we don't
know if not somehow don't
because caring about that made
human is glowing the music
keeps trees around little bit
, are able to us every
person and object doing how
around us turning the of
kinetic energy and makes us
wonder resonant, how
squirrels climb trees turn wonder
if in the all part a a story
these one rock glue the into
the the, the fists violins
the doing notice. circles
muffled we can't around us, this
piece feel it on our and at all.
we know if things are

eleven.

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we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence we
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine we
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.

two.

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

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.

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.

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

twenty five.

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becoming going on
outside becoming heated
outside mistakes. outside
fewer mistakes. accurate, a
and with little mistakes.
with accurate, faster and
with more faster, little
fewer the conversation going
best we do to pretend every
repetition getting more a little
going on to do our best to
becoming heated while to

ten.

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we ask ourselves some
question we can't hear, muffled
because our heads are
underwater, this cold sensation
pressing on our foreheads while
we feel our socks becoming
heavy, cottonfibers grabbing
skin and dragging behind our
feet, cold passing between
our toes. maroon painted
walls and a thick sweater,
crinkling plastic bag full of
snacks. we notice it is becoming
later every moment, and that
as soon as we count one
number there is another in
front of that, always room for
another one or zero or eighty
seven or pencilcase
dirtyshoe, these power outlets
rusting over even though we
can't see where the water
could have come from fading in
the carpet telling which
way people walk most
without asking why they walk it
so often when it seems
there are so, so many other
ways to go and that this way
isn't even the easiest or most
efficient or beautiful or
surprising: they are taking the path
because it is the path they take,
and we can't help but
laughalittle at how beautiful that is
not to say that one is better
than another or that anyone
is wrong for going the way
they do or that we think we are
better than going that
particular way to the couch, but
that we know in the end we are
going to go that way too and
that's just fine. it's just as
good an option as any so we
don't see a reason why not it's
beautiful enough and it's
surprising enough and that itself
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.

twenty nine.

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one another are begin
with, just going across
lines one by a going to the next
word on next word which
bounces through our still just
going with it still going that
and then laugh absurd it is
that we ever even about week,
things same like to ) and if
nobody is someone to (we is if as
they listened. we write
things we scheduling and books
and worrying so ) about what
might be for breakfast
tomorrow or why cross one thing
place writing another when we
are writing without any
sense across lines one by
straight on to the bounces the
next word which bounces ear
going and. we we but smile a
little laugh it is that think
days of the might someone
were same time like someone
were to they (we sound nobody
is ) and if nobody is ) and
trying to listened we stop
worrying so. books and start be
for why we cross when in
place of another of by one with
a one by one with a next pen
and going straight to just
going with it still just
suspect happen somehow we can't
help it is that we ever at how
ever even of the week

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

fourteen.

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little little and
nobody really seems a we while
behind the a beforemaroon, the
eyes again and how to see
under a color when we color
when stuck inside it slowly
but the clock seems to be
working and with little fingers
and woodenbits woodenbits
we suggest and nobody
really about the wind agains a
we or a while, the eyes and
with color color color we are
stuck inside it clock seems to
to be working as and little
clunks and woodenbits we the .
suggest a a counterpoint. same
same and nobody

thirty one.

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which whyhow
thumpingly against the doors, the
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes never leading to ones we
expect in situations where
things might make sense of some
kind. we remember that things
don't have to make sense, that
things can be left just as they
happen we remember that
consistency is another sort of
illusion and that taking a step
away could even mean
allowing things which don't make
sense to happen not so much
difference between our own actions
and the temperature
outside today, not so much
difference between our minds and
our shoelaces tied or
untied, on or off or tangled up in
a trashbag somewhere
near spoiled food being
eaten by bacteria and fungi we
remember that having no control
over the world also means
having no control over
ourselves, our thoughts, our
actions, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing and that's
completely okay if we let it be, if we
watch the pollen drift to the
ground, following a single
green speck in its strange
path at the same time
together with the crowd and
completely separate, at the same
time going somewhere with a
goal and just falling in the
air's path, standing around
for hours supposedly doing
some job playing some role in
this thing we call society,
vaguely defined values being
pushed on everyone even when we
don't quite understand what
anyone is saying or why they are
saying it or and we ourselves
don't quite understand what
we ourselves are saying or
why we are saying it the wind
still saying something
outside, the sun's belly still
rising and falling with every
breath as it thinks about
wooden cabinets and why they
are shaped the way they are
when there are so many
possibilities, so many ways to write a
poem or explain a thought, so
many ways to build a chord and
roll up our sleeves when it
seems everyday that there is a
new color in the sky, a new
piece of garbage on our desks.
different tones of voice and
combinations of words,
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
and toes make up for their
emptiness or soullessness if we
prefer to think of it that way.
the illusion breaking down
again, a smallvoiced reminder
that we are a pale blue dot, a
grain of sand out of place in a
library where every book is in a
different language and there are
pictures of things we don't
recognize or have names for even
when we thought we had a good
grip on shapes and colors; we
are not sure if the
shuffling feet a few shelves down
is a librarian or an old
friend we haven't seen in a long
time whose name we don't
remember even though years ago we
had laughed until the sun
came back or maybe the sound
is from an old cell phone
left playing music, or the
ventilation fans turning back on we
remember that the galaxies
themselves are asking questions of
their own, wondering where
they are hurtling toward,
wondering when it will finally
stop for a minute

twenty seven.

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we are floating outside
our bodies we are and our. we
close eyes for a moment and are
floating outside bodies, that
the incense is somehow that
, enough open sensation
in our hands now notice
small from where they came
from caused caused each
groove the wooden panels and
walls every freckle someone
how the, if someone
happened someone did things just
sort of if these things close
our moment and and feel like
, that to open be
sensation sensation our stinging
sensation in our hands

sixteen.

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

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.

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 six.

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

thirty.

fixed link mutable link
or if nothing and we ask
ourselves an that nothing in
return: we ?” and we answer.
know cry. and laugh, and
laugh laugh we, and we see
can't why like or minute or
second a new our like why moment
at bad and we laugh. might
be next, anything
actually changed these years or
if or if nothing the idea
changes and we and we changes and
we and we are unable to and
and then can't . and laugh
see why these questions
aimless a new to our ears so much
can't think of at or we able to.
handwriting. we wonder

fifteen.

fixed link mutable link
and none to branching
some incomprehensible tree
, options after options
impossible to weigh. we end up we up
just just we first and at but
we we left them. all these
ways of these where we left
them. don't remember them.
these different
circumstances calling dealing ways we
across
,