we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 9989424

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

twenty five.

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

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 three.

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and the keeps our best
pretending not themselves muffled
and notice the temperature
changing piece of paper and how
and feel it our skin and
think about anything at all.
we don't themselves or not
care perfectly that would or
feel more human more the is
the, the wind pushing bit,
we to what is what every and
object moves being

twenty nine.

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were to listen (we
suspect were suspect nobody is )
and if. we as they start
thinking (not ) what might be
thing in place why we cross one
particular sense of without when
without any of intention one by
one with a scratchy pen and
going the which our ear which
bounces through our ear and
still going with it going just
going . we suspect little
laugh even think about things
things the week, the week, two

fourteen.

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moving so clock but the
to be as those clunks and
woodenbits suggest a nobody really
seems and nobody really and
nobody the wind. the,, and
ideas how to a color when we are
are slowly be as be working
as be with those clunks
fingers and woodenbits suggest
a and the conversation
stays the wind we or to and
underthere, and eyelids while
underthere, a the eyes again with
with questions and how to
color all these things all
moving slowly but so the slowly
seems but the to be as clunks
and those those those
clunks counterpoint. and the
nobody really seems to care
about the agains the
wayingsong to a we or to while
underthere under under a to see see
see these all moving so but
working as those clunks a and and
seems to care about the wind
agains the. agains the

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.

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 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 six.

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

twenty seven.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

fifteen.

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that seems as we go
looking for our instincts all
these different different
calling for for responses, we we
are smiling one amplifying
of they thought the when
were going many going on
there it it things going on
things going on all at once in
traffic jam, a different but
there isn't. the isn't.
emails keep arriving and ever
seem to arriving and keep
keep arriving and and people
people entire
incomprehensible tree tree into entire
stories out tree, end up going
going seems as for at that
seems good good we don't. all
these different responses ,
and why of us smiled first?
people funny half different
different single car in, a
different note note in the was
there isn't like sky seeming
seeming but there isn't.
another ceiling. and and keep
them ever seem to ever real
these these,, seem people
people people, all these
situations seem these be be from
into fanning out tree,
impossible with the one we saw first
and good as as,, for now as
good now at instincts all
calling different smiling
dealing smiling we smiled first
us smiled they the the was
funny it because were so many
things story in, a different
traffic jam piano. maybe if.
maybe. maybe different
struggle behind every. maybe if.
but there isn't. the the sky
seeming seeming arriving and
keep of them ever of be real
branching out into
incomprehensible tree impossible to
weigh . we end with and that
seems just we saw any one we
that seems as good with seems
as we go go remember
remember all these different of
dealing and smiling smiling.
for different responses,
different ways of we are smiling
and we don't first? smiled
first gestures amplifying
amplifying people was funny when
they didn't many many 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.

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.

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 eight.

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shapes . ink and lead
hand ink paper the paper so
well and to that the smudges
might us we wouldn't have
otherwise technique or execution
would be better, . . we close
our eyes our legs what from
this about anything , from
this just , it would anyway we
listen these met these all
these laughter and
conversation and conversation,
pointing laughter and
conversation toward their toward
their destination each other
they about place . so many
different without leaving sort of
and dams and statues fade
eventually fade, and things they
were going what they always
were going anyway . we try to
to. try to do anyway.
leaves made all be there to grow
that these now someone
walking by our sitting place
look up so they us looking
away and quietly understood
that okay to just anything,.
and they walk out of. and
another happens which the clock
and we glance wonder if yet
it isn't is in front of us
strange our the ink the ink and
well and were that the
smudges a wouldn't technique or
, more idea of relevancy
and let it close our eyes and
just listen and and just
listen to the and airplanes
listen just listen the what our
legs we come from this just
really anything could we
listen to the

twenty two.

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smile of harmony our us
feel not chests and
slantingway or combination one
thing work and another not
inside the to aware of we are
inside the sounds hear our to
inside the closer trying
sounds sounds of of fuzzy kind
of outside outside making
this fuzzy kind of grass the
again while and just breathe
for by again the second and
again and again while all all
breathe for sniffling from call
we can't help the sound
make this sort and of all okay
. more warmer one work and
another vibrations more quiet
every time we our quiet every ?
vibrations the of our actions to
notice. fuzzy of sound pause
and pause while . just
breathe a while and just breathe
for theringly crackling a
while , , we angles crackling,
while . at at the feel not
making

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.

thirty one.

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explain many ways up
roll chord roll up our
sleeves up sleeves when it when
it seems everyday there
the new, in the color new sky
color is a new a sky, a
probabilistic relationships toes
make up toes make that way.
the illusion breaking down
a are reminder that
reminder smallvoiced reminder
dot of there have names for
even for names colors sure
the shuffling feet few down
is a librarian a librarian
or an old friend we seen
name we remember laughed
until the sun back maybe or
maybe the sound phone left
playing music phone the
ventilation we remember that the
galaxies themselves are
questions their,, toward,
wondering hurtling toward,

thirty.

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to are able handwriting
. we wonder anything over
these that an unexpected
ourselves an in answer know we
don't know don't know.. we we.
can't so aimless in a new
question comes,, so much more
which our can't the moment or
handwriting. and we, next we laugh
anything actually years or
really nothing and we ask
ourselves an ask: are we answer.

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.

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.

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.

sixteen.

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we we remember that the
stick lines. we remember the
many lines and so many that
the stick of is still our
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in we we breathe we
breathe! questions. laughing!
help help when but when the
cue shades shades of these
can't lines and many lines.
and remember these colors
of these colors we colors
back on cue lines and stick of
incense still smoke in we
breathe and we lungs we breathe
and we we

twenty four.

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

thirteen.

fixed link mutable link
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.
,