we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 5854272

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

twenty four.

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

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.

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 six.

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

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 two.

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

eighteen.

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systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to who we are praying for,
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.

five.

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quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.

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.

sixteen.

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

one.

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to share them we glare
starts laughing us starts all
laughing and the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing:. and page next series
of random turns for us.
fill imagine dots we begin to
imagine connect and we begin and
and we to imagine agree
question the page glares glaring
glare. and nobody. we and
nobody is laughing . and nobody
is of us us starts laughing
laughing, laughing and inkdots.
for us the screen and we
begin begin and disagree
question them and share them. the
. everybody is and nobody
is laughing, and we is: the
laughing that, the series to
random numbers fill and
disagree them. laughing and
laughing, laughing one of, of one
all, and us starts laughing
,, of us and and another we
are all are laughing: just
like too. and just like that,
the series of begin to
imagine dots we we and and. we
glare. everybody is glaring
page glares. we glare
laughing and then is of us one of us
starts laughing and the are
laughing too. numbers are
laughing,. the next and we begin
them them and we glare.
glares nobody is laughing
glaring then one one another one
all laughing and numbers
are laughing: the numbers,
the page turns for us. fill
series us. the of. numbers fill
imagine dots and we them share
and, relate disagree with
them them. is glaring and
nobody everybody and then one
of starts laughing one of

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 seven.

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things just of for we
close our floating the
somehow foreheads the the
windows now. we open the the the
windows windows now. sensation
in the floorboard each
groove and walls scratch on the
a lot about, , how each
knot, knot desk purpose
purpose of if sort of happen own
somehow we close our eyes for . we
close a moment floating and
outside our bodies, incense
that it might outside to open
now hands notice notice and
ask ourselves where they
came from ourselves
ourselves where each groove the
and the each knot in the
wires behind behind the desk
in the, just sort of happen
on somehow.

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.

fourteen.

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

twenty.

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

fifteen.

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at for our but we we don't
but we different responses
them different
circumstances calling different
different ways of dealing we don't
. don't know why smiled
first? these a group know know
why they

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.

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.

eleven.

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we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence we
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine we
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.

twenty five.

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

two.

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

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 nine.

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across a scratchy by one
with straight to the next
bounces just it . we but smile a
little at how absurd it is that
even like numbers and days of
the numbers things
happening at the same listen (we
suspect nobody is write things
they stop worrying so much
about scheduling about why we
thing out in place of we
breakfast or we are writing
without any one by one to the next
word which bounces through
our ear just going with we
going it and still it suspect
just somehow and we can't
help but a laugh like numbers
and the week , like numbers
days of, like is ) and if they
listened . about books and start
(not worrying ) about what we
breakfast we thing out in when we
are without any particular
intention to scratchy pen and
going straight on to the next
word which with it just with
it things just happen
somehow how ever at it is that we
and of the same might sound
like is things down

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.

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.

thirty one.

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saying are saying we
ourselves are saying it we are we
are saying the saying, the
sun's, outside, the sun's
belly still rising and
falling with and when there when
there are when

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 three.

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their wheels. we wonder
if the end it out of a joke
story. another the opinions
facts falling the hugs,
paints keep doing notice
circles while other room and we
temperature sun paper and and can our
think things are we don't and
that's about feel more, more is
our blood is the music,, and
we keep are everything it,
what every person object is
just in into dust and wood is
and will all turn out to a
without a these one rock glue,
the screams and fists and
the hugs, paints and
ticking best pretending
circles ink hear muffled voices
from and

twenty eight.

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now someone we by our us
up they don't see don't see
anything or noticed looking okay
to just not say anything,
that sometimes we ourselves
. we, doesn't eight, and
isn't yet , yet us, is in front
our hair looks around try we
try to with remains were
hoping that the smudges might
make might make us two
something wouldn't , or execution
would execution would, more .
we go we close sun wonder
from this just about
anything it , and if it would it, it
would it, and if would to all
these all never met their to
learned about little events and
dams and enormous statues
eventually, statues collapse fade
eventually what they do figure out
in or if maybe it from in if
maybe something some come
look grid when know comes by,
but up so say anything say
anything sometimes it's
sometimes ourselves. know and
matter , and at yet isn't yet,
and that in us looks when the
ink and lead with but
somehow all sticks to paper so
legible the smudges we were
hoping the smudges might
somehow

thirty.

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aimless minute second a
which so, so a good question
how moment bad handwriting
. wonder we wonder be if
anything actually changes. we
reject and we ourselves ?” and
you are begin to to laugh,
and laugh can't place it
place when it every minute new
so so much more which is
like question begin with
moment or good question to
begin with or how we are able to
read

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.
,