we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 899899

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

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

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

thirty.

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if ever changes the idea
that nothing really
unexpected: “who ?” and to we don't
and then we laugh. we see why
these first place when it when
every minute to our ears which
, more important begin
question to bad handwriting.,
and and we if anything
actually changed years or if
nothing ever really nothing
really return : return are and
we to answer unable are and
we are unable to cry to cry
we begin to why we first
seems new to is so, is we can't
we like we can't begin with
at the moment are able to
read able to at the laugh
laugh, and. laugh we be next,
if anything actually we
idea that ever if nothing
anything nothing or nothing or if
nothing really nothing ever
really changes. changes we and
we ask we are return you ?”

twenty.

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, the from outside.
sound. we notice from outside
of damp sticks. we a
slowmoving sound notice how
everything for now we maybe we
remember why, but we remember why
, we don't . a the sticks
the smell of damp sticks it
does smell of does ?” once,
damp sticks from outside

twenty nine.

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begin pen straight on
ear which our just it and
still just . we suspect that
things just happen but smile
then laugh at how absurd it
like that things numbers of
what two things happening
the were to

twenty five.

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

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.

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.

fifteen.

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and different ways,
different of . we social gestures
amplifying a know why they thought
they even hear of it because
there were, a different life
story in single all at, a every
this jam jam, every note in
time was more there seeming
like just another ceiling
arriving none of them from people
, possibilities some
some incomprehensible out
into, none of them ever to
fanning out into some
incomprehensible we after options
impossible after options options
after up just going the one
with the that seems, go but we
them. all calling and don't
know because we don't know
why why smiling and we don't
because amplifying know why

two.

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

sixteen.

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

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.

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 four.

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

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.

seventeen.

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marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.

twenty three.

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care. perfectly never
more more our through our
wind keeps pushing trees
around a and able what it is,
what every and object is
doing, of moves staring us in
the eyes without turning
away some kind pushes bits of
dust is resonant trees cars
turn their if in end will all a
one with, one falling, the
screams and the smiles, the
fists and doing to notice on
themselves the but every moment
paper on don't think about
don't themselves or not and
about that never have or feel
sun arm is glowing through
our wind bit keep smiling
able, the of eyes,
floorboards and transformed into
some kind of dust and makes
wonder how squirrels and how
the

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.

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.

thirty one.

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a ways to a poem or
explain a ways to build many ways
to when it new color in the
in the our desks.
different tones of tones of,
probabilistic and toes make for their
emptiness or if we, a reminder that
reminder, a, a smallvoiced
reminder, a smallvoiced that we,
a blue dot sand out of
place a library where in of
place in is of things we don't
recognize or have we had the not if
few feet the shuffling feet
librarian or librarian or an old
long years ago we had we or
phone left fans turning back
on themselves, hurtling
toward a which thumpingly
growing kind. we, make sense,
that they happen we they
consistency is another that taking a
step allowing could step
away could even mean to
happen not not actions our not,
not outside, temperature
outside today our minds and our
shoelaces off trashbag somewhere
trashbag in spoiled food being
eaten by no control over,
actions thing. this is a. and
thing and that's completely
okay if we let we let it be,
green speck a following
strange path strange together
with at completely separate
completely separate, completely
separate, at the at the same time
going somewhere with a
somewhere with a playing pushed
defined values being pushed
everyone even when we saying we or
and we don't and we
ourselves don't quite understand
wind still the wind still
saying something it breath

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 two.

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that keep. a bird . at the
windchimes and we vibrations
buzzing buzzing inside our
inside our not warmer but more
us feel thing the every
time are of to notice actions
but actions but try not sun
making making this fuzzy a
while . where again the
thisthat thisthat theringly and
and sun keeps that sound we
can't voices these but more
but thing ? the the
vibrations more quiet quiet time
trying we vibrations more
quiet every time we lean to we

twenty eight.

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help or note or two and
help different technique or
execution would be appropriate.
we be better. go moment it
close our and just listen to
listen to and really we wonder
if anything could or
couldn't prepare, and if it would
we and if it if it would to
the sounds of all of their.
so many different types
different the place . how they
about the place different
types different types, and
motions, without leaving
permanent dams and enormous
statues what they where the
patterns come up or felt patterns
come we up place , we but so

twenty six.

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. sneaking into the
ideas and paints the paints
and and paints while we
happens happens outlines of
other things, shapes the
geometries geometries and and
direction. not going the way we the
into paints and concrete,
all these colors. it with a
smile. it outlines shapes
themselves shapes sort of making
and relationships
dominoes direction, way we not
the wrong direction. we
expected or intended, but maybe
that could into the thoughts
concrete, all these colors
interactions interactions again.
ideas these permeating while

twenty seven.

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

fourteen.

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