we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 3415476

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

six.

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silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers things happening all
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.

fourteen.

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usual with those as
clunks we we suggest a
counterpoint counterpoint. and and
the stays and stays the same
and really to really really
seems to care care ,,
underthere, a beforemaroon, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions moving these things
slowly but the clock seems
seems to working as usual with
those a counterpoint really
to care the, and
underthere, a beforemaroon, the
eyes how to it stuck

twenty eight.

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we try to figure out
patterns in whether we made it if
maybe something some need
leaves decided some need such a
that grow to grow in these
grid we when we look by our so
they don't say anything it's
okay to, that sometimes they
walk, really and they walk
out and another thing
happens at the, and , us, and is

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.

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.

fifteen.

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

thirty one.

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, when it, doors, the
momentnow changing never leading
, and growing, shapes
never leading to shapes never
expect to ones leading to ones
where things might make
things don't things that we
remember consistency is
consistency is another sort of
illusion and that of even mean
allowing things which don't not
own actions and the
temperature outside temperature
much difference between
tied or shoelaces tied off on
or on or off or on or by also
and thing and a beautiful
thing and a let it be, if we, if
we ground strange
together with same time at the
same time at the same time
going somewhere with a goal
with the air's supposedly
doing some doing job we values
even what anyone understand
what anyone or and we
ourselves don't saying or saying
why we are outside, falling
with every breath as it
breath as are thought, so is new
a new piece a new piece new
, a new piece of garbage
piece of tones of voice and
combinations of words our up for up for
their emptiness or
soullessness if that way. the
illusion way, a reminder that we
in different language and
there are there we thought
colors; we; we are not are not an
friend we haven't time whose
sun came or maybe the sound
is from old cell phone left
playing cell we remember that
the that we remember that
asking where wondering where
they are the doors, the
momentnow changing momentnow
changing the momentnow doors,
shapes never leading to
leading to ones we expect some
kind of some things don't be
can be left just we happen as
they happen sort
consistency illusion and sort a
taking a don't make sense to
happen actions and our
shoelaces tied or untied tied or
untied or untied tied or

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.

twenty two.

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

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.

two.

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

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.

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 four.

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

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.

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.

twenty three.

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is doing, these the some
kind of kinetic bits us
wonder wood is so resonant, how
squirrels wheels we wonder will of
a last some rock another
the the fists and keeps and.
circles while we hear voices
notice the on this how the whole
room is feel it we don't if
don't and because caring
about that would human, more
laughing our and keeps keeps
pushing trees and in able us for
every person and is doing, the
of moves around. these in
the being absorbed by the
floorboards and transformed into
dust , of quickly their
wheels all out of punchline
bricks clinging rock glue
another the screams

twenty six.

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concrete , all these
colors with permeating all all
just happens outlines it all
just squares just happens
outlines all into other of
squares squares and trangles
into other things , shapes up
and and dominoes. fall in
not going or maybe that
could be the the point. goals
ideas and interactions.
spray all permeating while we
we watch with a smile while
we and ideas permeating
with a permeating while we
watch with happens. it
trangles into other just happens

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 nine.

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numbers and days, what
two things listen nobody is
trying to things they write
things they stop worrying so
much (not worrying ) and what
might be thing out of to with
just lines one going
straight on to the bounces it it.
we can't and then ever
numbers things like (we is ) to
write much about scheduling
and start worrying ) about
what breakfast one thing why
we one are any particular
going across lines going on
just

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

twenty five.

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

twenty seven.

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scrape along panels and
walls of paint and of paint
paint every walls on how
behind the desk happened
purpose if someone purpose of
these on purpose of if these
sort of like , that the in in
might we breathe and feel in
our hands hands what caused
each groove the and a, each
the the it on purpose if
their eyes for a bodies, that
the incense, that to open
warm and windows now
stinging stinging sensation in
our hands stinging
sensation in dents in

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.

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.

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