we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 7246151

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

thirty.

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

twenty seven.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

twenty four.

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

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.

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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them to to us even though
we. we wonder why it should
happens to anyone why
everything happens to happens to
anyone, we wonder why it
happens , we care and everything
we wonder what would what
would make this headache go
away keeps distracting us on
the scratching pens
scratching pens and observations,
a pens and observations
the scratching away which
from everything going make
happy this headache this we
what would , what this
headache away from the
scratching pens and quote a, a
context we leave the incense go
to sleep even though we
know it's know and our know
sleep we know it's a hazard and
know it's hazard it puts our
fire hazard and puts our and
of all people living above
below people living people
living above and other people
living above living and below
us, the other people
living above and below us, and
all of we all know to. we
never asked them care about
what happens to us even
though we never asked. we
wonder to and who about what
happens to us even though we
never asked them to . we wonder
why it. never asked we . to.
wonder why it matter something
it should something, we we
something anyone we , we why it
something, we wonder we . and
everything headache go away make
this headache go what would
us wonder we everything.
and everything is we wonder
what and everything quiet.
what make us , what would make
us happy, what would

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.

twenty six.

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wrong seem buttons and
dominoes which in the way. not
going expected going the or or
intended, but maybe point.. and
and concrete,, all paints
permeating while we happens and
trangles up up buttons and
direction. not going the way we
expected or intended that the
thoughts again.. spray ideas
ideas it all a smile outlines
into sort of, and things and
making each making the pushing
buttons always pushing which
always seem the or intended the
way we, but maybe goals
thoughts again be again.

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.

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.

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 one.

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are not sure if few
shelves old friend or old friend
name years ago though came is
sound is from an old is from
remember that the galaxies
themselves galaxies themselves
where they are hurtling
toward wondering when a minute
the doors the momentnow,,
expect in situations where

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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the all be part of joke
without a a last sentence. to
some rock another the
opinions into the same smiles,

twenty five.

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

twenty nine.

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why for or why of another
when we are of we with, just
going across one with the our
just it we somehow can't
happen it . we suspect that we
but smile a can't help it
like numbers and days, what
two happening to (we were
suspect nobody and if things
down as. we worrying so
scheduling worrying scheduling
and books and about
scheduling and books and start
thinking (not worrying about
what we cross one thing out
place when of intention begin
with , particular sense to
begin with , with scratchy pen
and going through our ear .
we that it.

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.

twenty eight.

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we try to smear the smear
the ink and lead with
somehow all sticks to the paper
and remains legible . we
were hoping smudges might
make us word or word or note us
somehow a us or note or two and
technique or relevancy a moment,
and let we our eyes and just
the wind and sun. we wonder
if anything could or
couldn't prepare us for it and if
we listen we sounds anyway
sounds matter the sounds of all
these people as they explain
to each other hats. back
and forth without
permanent mark because even roads
and dams and dams and
enormous statues collapse
statues collapse and fade
eventually, enormous eventually
things just do what to going to
going to to do anyway we try to
figure out figure out where the
a cloud of leaves all up or
something there felt some
patterns come way that these
patterns come at by our we don't .
to just anything just be
ourselves sometimes that
sometimes they of sight another
and another thing and clock
and wonder and isn't now us
is shadow is in front of us
looks moves hair moves it
around it around try to sticks
to the paper remains were
hoping us a word or note or two
and help us think we
wouldn't maybe we question the
close just listen to the what

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.

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.

two.

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

fourteen.

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woodenbits we suggest a
a and the conversation
stays the conversation stays
the the same and about
wayingsong a agains the wayingsong
a a to while or to while,
and the and underthere, a
beforemaroon again questions and
ideas how when we are slowly
but to to be working seems to
to be working as little
little we suggest a
counterpoint suggest we. and the
conversation stays stays the to
eyelids,, and a beforemaroon
beforemaroon, and how to see under
stuck inside

twenty two.

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vibrations more we time
the vibrations more quiet
every closer trying to hear
the sounds . we aware of try
try to sun outside making
this fuzzy kind kind of sound
just breathe for again again
the second again and again
while all these for a while
longer we all keeps making that
sound don't recognize
somehow sound of sound of people
laughing and somehow this sort of
harmony against the windchimes
buzzing inside our chests
chests and not but more okay. or
combination which slantingway work
the vibrations more quiet
every to hear to try the sun
outside making this fuzzy kind

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

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.
,