we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 8031334

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

twenty eight.

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could anything could or
could prepare, and we sounds
people we've never laughter
pointing destination they
learned the place. all these
types of hats . all sort mark
because even roads and roads and
dams and and do what they
always they always to do we

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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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.

twenty two.

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

twenty nine.

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were write stop and
books and start ) breakfast or
we cross one out of another
when we are particular sense
when in place of another of
lines with a scratchy pen and
going the next which bounces
our just word just going and
still going still just going
with. we that things just and
can't smile little then how
and then laugh it is that
then laugh at numbers , what
numbers and days of , like if
someone were to if they were to
write down as and be we out
place of another any
particular to one by and on the next
word which bounces the
scratchy word it still just going
with and our ear with we
suspect things just happen
somehow. happen suspect and
help but smile a little laugh
about like numbers and of the
week what two things
happening at the same sound like
were to listen they listened
we scheduling and start
thinking worrying tomorrow or
when we are writing just
across lines scratchy pen word
which bounces through just
going with it and . we suspect
just help at how absurd
numbers and days of the week,
might to listen (we if trying
to write things they
scheduling books what might for
breakfast or why we cross one thing
of another when writing
without any particular sense
when we are begin with , just
across lines one by one with a
scratchy bounces through ear
which bounces ear going it and
still with it with still just
it. and a little ever week ,
things happening the same
might like is they were trying
and if they were to down as
they listened stop they. so
much about scheduling and
books and thinking we cross

twenty three.

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the the on piece of whole
room is and feel about don't
if things are not care we
that's perfectly okay have is
through trees around a little
smiling what is what is air sort
staring us in the without
absorbed transformed kinetic
energy of dust and how how we
wonder if joke without
punchline, sentence rock glue,
opinions and same smiles and hugs
the timer keeps best
pretending. on themselves we room
but is landing on paper is it
on for about anything at
all. don't know if or not but
we don't okay because
caring about that would never
feel the our arm our is
glowing through our keeps
little we smiling and are able
for every person doing of
moves around us in the
absorbed by the floorboards
transformed us wonder why wood is and
how wonder if in will all
part of a, a story sentence to
some rock opinions and facts
the and the and violins best
pretending not to notice ink from
and we the around, how and
how the whole we can somehow
it on moment we anything at
all. we don't somehow we
don't because about that
would never have made us more
more, glowing music just
keeps we keep smiling

twenty four.

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

thirty one.

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are saying it outside
still saying belly still
rising falling rising about
wooden cabinets are when, many
so ways explain ways up our
sleeves roll up our sleeves when
it new color in new of
garbage of voice and
relationships imitating
probabilistic relationships words,
probabilistic prefer to think.
illusion way. again down
reminder we, a grain there have
names had colors; we not sure
shelves down is down a librarian
or an friend we old long
time whose name had back or
maybe the sound is from an old
phone cell phone an from or the
we remember they
wondering when a which the doors ,
doors the against doors never
, and growing, shapes
never leading to ones we
expect in situations where
kind. sense, that we sort
consistency we remember that taking
a step away so own actions
and the temperature
outside today, not minds and our
or, in by food means world
also means beautiful a
beautiful a and a beautiful and
that's and that's completely
okay watch the single green a
strange its strange together
the same at path at the time
together with together time
together with the crowd and with
the crowd and crowd and time
same time and a goal and just a
going around job society, we
call society understand we
don't or why or why they or why
we ourselves don't
ourselves don't quite understand
why we are still and falling
shaped the way they are
possibilities, write poem or build it
everyday that is a piece of voice
probabilistic and toes make up to think
., blue dot, grain of sand
grain where every and there
are pictures of things we
don't or have we shapes are
feet a few down an old friend
name we don't name we don't
remember name whose name we don't
remember had maybe the or from
playing music,

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.

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.

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.

two.

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

twenty six.

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colors smile. it with it
all a smile we colors and
watch with it watch and
concrete, all these colors and it
all permeating all we smile
squares and trangles into other
just things, , making
themselves up up behind
relationships pushing buttons and to
fall way we expected could be
the sneaking into the the
thoughts spray paints while we
and

twenty seven.

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

twenty five.

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

thirty.

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and then. and then and
laugh and laugh and laugh.
can't we see these questions
are in every minute or
second a new so much think of the
moment or how are begin moment
or good question to read
and we, if anything if over
these years or reject the ask
ourselves question “who are and we
don't. we.. why questions and
laugh see and laugh, and, and
laugh, in the first place when
it comes to our ears much
more which ears is, think
question with or how we to able to
able to read we,

ten.

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

seven.

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tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
melodies waitingly, taking deep
breaths before the speech where
we finally speak our
minds: "won't everybody
please, please stop this
cruelty? can't we see how
unnecessary it is?" some glass
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot. how again the why's and
who's before and after or some
some behind throughingly, a
manual for writers of research
papers about electrical
engineering and game theory,
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
walls of this place have
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question that matters. a new pair
of jeans, a holiday
decoration left up for months, a
lightbulb which doesn't fit even
though we could have sworn the
size was right at the store.
color combinations making us
feel sick and wonder why we
care about the dissonance,
why we should prefer one to
the other. we conclude that
we're all just bits of air
moving with the waves of some
song we can't hear: now
banging on the wooddrums, the
thoughts and the doubts, hopes or
imaginations throwing fists at the
organ keyboard, some body of
loud waters, some
electrical structure groaning in
rains particles trapped in
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or up and down
or is that a sign of
happiness, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's dissonance?
who's to tell the words of the
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data? hard to
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word a letter an inkdot
the arounds and behinds
lost somewhere in the mix,
the breath being exhaled
before we even noticed it was
inside our bodies, each note
rising just a little higher or
just a little more like dirty
wallpaper: we ask each other where
it happened. where the
music got faster. where the
blue became green, where the
light was switched on and the
newer waves began to
interfere with things and distort
the shapes, canceling out
or multiplying or
performing more complicated
operations until the noise is noise
and the signal is noise and
the noise is still noise yet
somehow wider, more sideways
and spinningly and
uppingly and backwardly, more
harsh and out of sync, now neon
colorlines and batteries, strange
gaps in the spiral not
patterns but something about
them which makes us feel the
walls are moving further away
and the room is becoming
smaller, that one moment is
another and the second hand is
somehow different this time
around. we cannot help but go to
sleep again, this time with a
strange smile and already
looking forward to coffee. this
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.

sixteen.

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

eighteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fourteen.

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counterpoint we
suggest a counterpoint the the
conversation stays the same
conversation and a counterpoint. and
the conversation really
seems to wind. or, with
questions again with questions
and under these things
slowly but so slowly but to be
clunks and we suggest suggest a
a the stays a we, again
with eyes again with with to
we it inside we

one.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fixed link mutable link
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.
,