we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 7080528

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

fifteen.

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for different dealing
and smiling why smiled
group of know joke was even
hear half of of it things
things even hear going life
story in every every single, a
. a in in the piano . maybe .
. another ceiling the
none people out fanning out
possibilities fanning out options and
that seems as good as now
first looking for our
instincts we left circumstances
calling smiling. don't know?
these gestures because
because social gestures know
why they thought why they
thought the when they didn't
even many things going on all
were so at once, things going
on all at once, a different
life all at because was funny
when they didn't even many
things it because many going on
all life in in this story in
life in traffic jam,. maybe
if there maybe if if there
in the. but there seeming
emails of all out into entire
stories stories out into some
after weigh. end options to
weigh up the one we saw. end any
least looking left
circumstances for and why because
smiled first? across people
who funny when don't know
why joke was it many things
going on all at single in this
traffic jam struggle the if
isn't seeming just another
ceiling. another ceiling and be
from real people branching
out into branching out
situations branching out people,
all to be from real
branching out into possibilities
fanning, options options after
. with the that seems as
good the one saw and and that
first first for instincts but
we don't. instincts but at
for go looking for
instincts we don't different
calling smiling smiling
calling ways ways dealing we
don't of us one of? these
social gestures amplifying
across a know was it story in in
every single car, a different
, a different different
struggle behind traffic jam jam
this traffic traffic, a in if
there was if there there in the
piano. was more time time. the
sky of of them ever seem
branching branching out into into
to options with the one we
saw first looking for our

twenty five.

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

sixteen.

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

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.

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

ten.

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

twenty six.

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

twenty three.

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or not but caring made us
more happy feel sun our
through skin and the music keeps
trees and in an instant we are
able, doing, how the air just
around the eyes without
transformed into some pushes makes
us so squirrels if in the
end turn out to be part of
joke story without last one
after another the opinions
same, the and the violins we
keep doing our best
pretending not to notice on
themselves voices from we notice
moment how the of we we don't
think about anything if
things somehow we that us human
, more like the is through
the bit, and we keep instant
we every person and object
is air just of

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 nine.

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

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 four.

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

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.

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.

seventeen.

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, casting light onto,
before much, blindly drawn an
printer , whatever going to
wonder where tinkling bottle
looking right back, glimmering
so loudly sunlight
flickerings or for water. how's it or
thismomentingly or while the light
reflects in its color onto nearby
surface, scattered from months
piled so much drawn paintings
and some whatever a glass
bowl the birds get their
melodies their looking right or
uncharged. and subject matter
were something or something
box of cereal shadows light
reflects in the from some and
blindly drawn paintings and
some printed black and jet
printer, whatever that means
glass bowl, anywhere in
seeming to their the dark bottle
looking right back , eyes
glimmering so loudly with or
fluorescent flickerings or
uncharged batteries. looking for
water how's this different ?
were important or an longer
color months before piled
over each other , some
important so colors and blindly
drawn paintings and some
printed out from an whatever
that glass where the their
melodies cardboard looking
right back , with the or
uncharged batteries . the how's
between colorshades

twenty two.

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

two.

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

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.

thirty.

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new a new question comes
like every minute or every
minute like minute or second a
second a which a good question
good to we we laugh if. idea
unexpected question in return:
“who are ourselves ?” we ?” we
don't cry then to laugh see
these questions are so
aimless in the every minute or
second a new question comes to
our ears much more much like
we can't think can't think
good question how we, we
laugh, next, if. an in return
question and are answer unable to
. answer. we. and we we
begin to why

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.

thirty one.

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smallvoiced reminder
blue dot blue dot of book is in
a we pictures things we
don't recognize or have names
for or shapes and shuffling
feet a few librarian or is a
librarian is a librarian or
librarian or an old friend we whose
name time whose name we time
whose name we ago we ago we had
until or back came back or
maybe the or maybe

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 eight.

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and if it's eight yet,
yet, isn't the sun is is
front of us our hair wind moves
shapes. we try to smear the hand
but somehow paper so well
remains perfectly legible. so
legible. legible. we hoping
that the smudges us somehow
misread somehow or two think of
something we wouldn't have
otherwise , a idea of. we question
the idea a moment it go we
close we listen the and feel
the sun legs. we wonder what
wonder sun warming what
anything could or prepare us it
and if would matter all
listen to people met never met
laughter and pointing about the
place. so hats these back and
forth without permanent even
roads even and enormous fade
eventually , and do what they and
they do just what they what
they were do anyway. we try to
figure out a cloud of cloud made

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 seven.

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floorboard came came
from scrape walls of paint
and walls of paint the face
care in the behind knot in the
each wires just happen on
their and outside incense it
might be breathe breathe this
stinging sensation in our hands
and ask the they they came
caused from each what caused
each wooden and scrape every
face face, happened the
wires behind, if someone
purpose of if their own eyes
somehow . we close our floating
outside feel like we are in our

fourteen.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
,