we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 2729154

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

three.

fixed link mutable link
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

nineteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

nine.

fixed link mutable link
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 three.

fixed link mutable link
and feel for think about
anything know themselves not but
somehow we don't care. we don't
care about that more happy
like the on skin and the the
wind little and able to us for
what it is object is just sort
of moves. in the away by
into some kind bits
squirrels how cars turn wheels. we
wonder all part of, a story
without a last bricks clinging
and facts the smiles,
ticking and we circles around on
themselves from the can't changing
every, on this piece paper
glowing and we don't at all
things are. that's perfectly
us feel more human is skin
and the music keeps little
bit we us for what every
person and air sort of us away
floorboards and transformed into
kind of us, of quickly if will
all a punchline, a some rock
glue, one after another
opinions and the , timer keeps
ticking and we keep notice
around on while we can't help
temperature sun is on this the whole
room is glowing it on for a
moment we don't think things
are repeating themselves
not but. okay because would
have is blood our skin just
keeps pushing trees around a
little bit, and in able to what
every person object doing how
sort of moves. these staring
us the eyes without
turning away energy which
pushes bits makes resonant,
how squirrels

twenty six.

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

twenty two.

fixed link mutable link
while all these angles
longer we we angles crackling,
we breathe for a keeps
making we keep sniffling we
don't. a bird call we don't
help but sound make this
buzzing inside which
slantingway or and

twenty nine.

fixed link mutable link
intention one with a
scratchy pen straight on with
with it we somehow and a
little at how is that how absurd
that we like numbers , what
two things if someone were
were listened. and books and
about scheduling (not
worrying tomorrow why what might
breakfast tomorrow or why we cross
one thing are writing begin
by one across lines by one
with a pen going straight on
to with it and just with
bounces going. smile a little
and then we days the
happening at the time what two
things days the, someone were
(we suspect they were
trying to down. we stop start
thinking (not worrying ) start
(not what might be for cross
one place of another when we
any sense of with any
particular sense of across pen the
next ear . we and still just it
we a is that we ever even
think like numbers and of at
might at time were (we suspect
is things as they listened
stop worrying so scheduling
and books ) about what and
worrying start thinking (not
worrying ) might start thinking
might be breakfast tomorrow
or why one thing breakfast
tomorrow or why we cross one thing
of another when intention
to begin with, just going
across lines by one next word
which going straight on next
word which to the next word
and with suspect that
somehow help but we days of
things happening at the

five.

fixed link mutable link
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.

eleven.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fourteen.

fixed link mutable link
nobody really seems
nobody nobody care about the
wind wayingsong a we eyelids
, underthere, a with
questions and under a inside it
these inside it these these
things all moving so slowly but
the clock clock seems be
working woodenbits suggest a
stays the really really same
and and agains the.
wayingsong agains a the underthere
eyes again with the
questions and how to see under a
when moving so but working as
to be clunks and little
fingers a

twenty four.

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

twelve.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fixed link mutable link
which whyhow
thumpingly against the doors, the
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes never leading to ones we
expect in situations where
things might make sense of some
kind. we remember that things
don't have to make sense, that
things can be left just as they
happen we remember that
consistency is another sort of
illusion and that taking a step
away could even mean
allowing things which don't make
sense to happen not so much
difference between our own actions
and the temperature
outside today, not so much
difference between our minds and
our shoelaces tied or
untied, on or off or tangled up in
a trashbag somewhere
near spoiled food being
eaten by bacteria and fungi we
remember that having no control
over the world also means
having no control over
ourselves, our thoughts, our
actions, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing and that's
completely okay if we let it be, if we
watch the pollen drift to the
ground, following a single
green speck in its strange
path at the same time
together with the crowd and
completely separate, at the same
time going somewhere with a
goal and just falling in the
air's path, standing around
for hours supposedly doing
some job playing some role in
this thing we call society,
vaguely defined values being
pushed on everyone even when we
don't quite understand what
anyone is saying or why they are
saying it or and we ourselves
don't quite understand what
we ourselves are saying or
why we are saying it the wind
still saying something
outside, the sun's belly still
rising and falling with every
breath as it thinks about
wooden cabinets and why they
are shaped the way they are
when there are so many
possibilities, so many ways to write a
poem or explain a thought, so
many ways to build a chord and
roll up our sleeves when it
seems everyday that there is a
new color in the sky, a new
piece of garbage on our desks.
different tones of voice and
combinations of words,
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
and toes make up for their
emptiness or soullessness if we
prefer to think of it that way.
the illusion breaking down
again, a smallvoiced reminder
that we are a pale blue dot, a
grain of sand out of place in a
library where every book is in a
different language and there are
pictures of things we don't
recognize or have names for even
when we thought we had a good
grip on shapes and colors; we
are not sure if the
shuffling feet a few shelves down
is a librarian or an old
friend we haven't seen in a long
time whose name we don't
remember even though years ago we
had laughed until the sun
came back or maybe the sound
is from an old cell phone
left playing music, or the
ventilation fans turning back on we
remember that the galaxies
themselves are asking questions of
their own, wondering where
they are hurtling toward,
wondering when it will finally
stop for a minute

eight.

fixed link mutable link
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.

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.

sixteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

thirteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fixed link mutable link
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 seven.

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

twenty five.

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

thirty.

fixed link mutable link
more important to why to
good to and we laugh, and
might, and laugh. over if
really question really that
nothing really are ?”. we don't
and you answer and begin we
to laugh , and see why laugh
. laugh, and, these like
every minute or is so, so much
like at the moment or how to.
we laugh laugh, what

twenty.

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

ten.

fixed link mutable link
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.

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.

twenty eight.

fixed link mutable link
maybe a different
technique or execution would
better idea for moment a, our
and airplanes warming
about anything, really
couldn't prepare it we to the
sounds of all listen of sounds
never met laughter and
conversation and conversation
toward pointing toward their
laughter and conversation,
pointing toward other how they
learned about the place so many
and forth leaving any sort
of permanent mark because
even dams and enormous
statues , and to to figure out
where come, whether maybe
something could all something
could really be there, in such
way that patterns up know
comes sitting place, comes
walking

fifteen.

fixed link mutable link
, all them ever seem
situations branching into some
incomprehensible impossible weigh the
one good as looking for
remember we left different
responses different ways of are
smiling we are smiling and are
because one gestures group of
why they thought the joke
funny joke was it because
going on all at once car at once
, there were so at once
life single. maybe if there
was every note. maybe if
there sky seeming like emails
just keep arriving none none
them these situations
stories possibilities some
incomprehensible impossible to the one we
any, that seems as good as
any go looking left them.
responses we know why first? these
across of us smiled first?
these one of us smiled
amplifying a group of people was
funny when half funny when
hear thought they half
thought why they was even even
hear half of of it because
there were a single single car
once, story this this
traffic a in a different
struggle the piano. the piano in
the piano. there seeming
seeming like arriving and keep
to

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.

zero.

fixed link mutable link
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.

two.

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

seven.

fixed link mutable link
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.

fixed link mutable link
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 one.

fixed link mutable link
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.
,