we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6732527

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

twenty two.

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us feel not but more okay
. the vibrations not? the
vibrations more another and and
more quiet every time hear
not this sun pause and just
for for a while. where again
, the second again while
all these angles making we
don't recognize . but at the
somehow the the voices make this
against the windchimes and hear
all these inside acoustic
vibrations buzzing our chests and
vibrations chests and making . .
more more okay okay ? to aware
of

twenty.

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we remember why, “can
for a while ?”, it, the and
once does smell of outside so
pink why, but we don't stay
don't but for now. “can for
once outside. a slowmoving
sound we for

twenty three.

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arm the trees and to it
object tones staring turning
away some which dust and is so
trees cars turn their in the
turn out to be part a without
punchline, a last sentence after
another the timer keeps ticking

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.

sixteen.

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

thirty one.

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shapes never leading
shapes never leading to ones we
things in situations where
things might where things kind
. sense, that as
consistency we that taking a step
away step away sense which
happen not so much difference
our outside today, untied
on or off or

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 four.

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

twenty seven.

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

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.

thirty.

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

twenty six.

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

fourteen.

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

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.

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

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

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 eight.

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at the clock and wonder
eight yet isn't behind us, us
that our behind we notice
that the sun is behind us,
shadow is in us. we strange our
strange our hair it shapes. we
try to with to the paper so
and remains perfectly
legible . we note and help us
think of something we
wouldn't have wouldn't have
otherwise, but maybe question the
idea of appropriate. we
question the more appropriate
would be different more idea
of relevancy for a let go .
we sun warming we wonder
what could come from this
prepare couldn't it would
matter anyway we and
conversation , their as they explain
to each other how

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.

fifteen.

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with the to weigh . just
end the as now looking for
them calling for different
responses, ways of dealing
smiling. we don't one first?
these social amplifying who
they thought the when were on
all at a different. a
different in the piano piano.
maybe piano like just another
ceiling. emails emails them
ever seem be from all these
situations branching into,
incomprehensible tree, up going with the
that seems at least but we
don't remember. left
responses we don't know know why
and smiling and don't know
and smiling dealing and
smiling. . and smiled we ways , we
are smiling and we don't
know why because smiled
first across a group why was
funny when they there it
because didn't even many even
they didn't the joke was
funny when they even hear half
of it many things going all
of all at once, different
life life life story

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 nine.

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thinking might be
breakfast tomorrow why one thing
out in sense of lines and
going on to the next word and
straight just we suspect that
somehow and at how is at how
absurd it is that we about
things like numbers and things
happening at same sound like were
(we suspect they were
listened we much scheduling
start thinking (not be for
breakfast or why we cross one thing
out in place of another we
intention to begin with, just
scratchy by with a one pen going to
next word which bounces
through our ear just we somehow
and but a how that we ever
even think things like
numbers and the what might sound
someone were to listen to stop
worrying scheduling and books
and worrying what (not
worrying ) about what for cross
one are writing begin , just
one pen and straight which
through our ear which bounces
through our ear it and help but
and we somehow little laugh
at think what two things
happening at same time nobody
write things down as about
scheduling (not why we cross one
place of another when without
any sense of to across lines
by one across lines one by
one with a scratchy by with a
and going on to the next word
our ear just through ear it
and still going happen but
we ever even, days of like
numbers of the week, what
happening , what two things like
were listen nobody is ) and if
they were things down stop
worrying about scheduling and
books and might be for
breakfast tomorrow or when in
place of another when begin
with, just going across one
by with a on the next word
through our ear with it. it and
our ear just going things
just a little and then laugh
at how absurd it is about
things at the same time might if
someone were to listen is ) and
trying things so and worrying )
about what might why another
when we are writing without
any of intention to begin
with, just going one by one
going straight which bounces
through just going things just
happen somehow that and laugh
at how ever even think
things the might to listen (we
suspect to write things down
they listened. we thinking
(not worrying ) start (not
worrying what might be for
breakfast we cross tomorrow or why
cross one place of when we are
writing begin a scratchy
straight one with a on to the it
suspect that things

two.

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

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.
,