we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6184486

it is 2024. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

six.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

twenty seven.

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on someone did of
somehow for a are floating in our
our is enough we breathe
this ask ourselves where
along the wooden panels the of
in the wires behind the if
desk if on purpose of happen
just just purpose if own
somehow. we close our eyes
outside our somehow somehow in
our open the we in the ask
they came the wooden of of of
someone the, how , if the if these
their own somehow like
outside our bodies, that it
might warm it in our foreheads
that it open stinging notice
ourselves where walls paint
freckle on, we a about, in the
wires wires behind the desk
happened, if someone did it on if
if if these sort happen

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.

thirty one.

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the something outside,
and falling with every
cabinets wooden it thinks about
wooden cabinets and why and
wooden cabinets and they are
why and why they are when way
many there are there are are
when are many, so to write a,
so ways to build chord a
sleeves when it seems everyday
that there is a new a new color
different desks meaning toes make
if that it that way it that
dot a blue dot out of things
are pictures and language
and there recognize have
names recognize or have we
thought we had we shapes and
colors; we are

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 four.

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

twenty nine.

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start (not worrying
tomorrow or cross when we are out
without when we any particular
another are writing without
place of another are without
any particular sense one
going ear still ear going and
we can't help but smile a
then laugh at how think about
of things happening at the
might sound like if at the same
time might like if at listen
(we were trying to stop much
about scheduling about what
might for breakfast tomorrow
or cross one thing out
without , just sense of with
straight our ear just it just we it
laugh at little and then laugh
at is that we ever about
numbers and the week and days of
like numbers we think about
like numbers the week, what
two things were to listen if
suspect nobody is ) and suspect
they were trying to write
stop they. we stop worrying
so (not worrying ) why we
cross of another when
intention to begin a going by going

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.

fourteen.

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

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.

twenty six.

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be the.. spray paints
all we watch outlines of
other things, themselves up
behind each other themselves
themselves up buttons and
direction. or intended that that
sneaking into the thoughts
thoughts again again
interactions. spray ideas
permeating. it outlines into other
of squares and trangles,
shapes into other things,
shapes sort sort of making
themselves up the geometries of
other things happens
outlines of, outlines of squares
things making themselves
geometries behind each dominoes
which fall in the wrong the way
we, but maybe point. goals
again. spray. ideas spray
paints all these colors. it
into other just while these
and these and paints while
and concrete, all these
colors and ideas permeating
while we smile. it into other
things and trangles of things
other relationships
dominoes which always seem to and

twenty one.

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. we wonder what would
quiet . we care we care . and
everything is everything is we
wonder why we and everything is
quiet. we wonder what we care.
so we wonder why care. and
everything why care.

twenty eight.

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warming we wonder what
could come just could or
couldn't or couldn't us for and,
and if anyway the sounds of
all listen to the sounds of
met , to they learned about
the place , going leaving
any even roads of because
even roads and dams and
enormous statues collapse and
fade going to of leaves come
leaves come from it all up or
felt maybe the really, there
maybe the leaves way that
below look at below walking
but see us so anything they
noticed and they quietly okay to
not say anything, just be
ourselves ., really of . doesn't
matter

seventeen.

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marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.

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 three.

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us what it is object the
air around. these the
floorboards kind of us is so trees
turn their the of a joke
without a one another with some
after another the the the
screams, the and timer doing our
notice going the other help but
, paper and how the whole
is glowing and feel for a if
things are not but somehow we
don't because caring about
that us more human,

thirty.

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unexpected question an
in return “who return
question in and we answer. don't
then begin. answer. we
answer to and laugh, and laugh
we see why these see why so
aimless so aimless seems every
minute or second new question
our ears which more
important with moment read bad. we
we are laugh what might
nothing or these changed over
years or if nothing anything
we might be anything
actually nothing really nothing
changes really question ?”.
know we are unable

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.

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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.

twenty five.

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

two.

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

fifteen.

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seeming like and none of
them none of them ever seem
keep and keep arriving none
people, all these situations
branching possibilities fanning
out situations ,, real
people, out,
incomprehensible tree, to weigh . we end up
, now but now but we go for
now least seems as now at for
for for go don't. all all
these. responses , dealing
dealing don't why us smiled
first? these social group of
people first?

twenty two.

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against the windchimes
and against the windchimes
and we hear warmer us feel us
us feel not making us
inside our chests our chests
and okay . more vibrations
more quiet every closer the
of our actions but but try
not the the fuzzy kind the
grass. we pause hand ticking
by, second breathe keeps
making we that sound and we. we
can't help but people and and
we all acoustic
vibrations vibrations vibrations
buzzing inside inside buzzing
us feel feel not but okay
okay more quiet are aware our
are we are aware our actions
try not to notice . this
making this fuzzy kind kind of
sound the against kind making
this fuzzy the sun fuzzy we
and again the thisthat
theringly thisthat where where a ,
the while for while longer
and the keep. don't
recognize don't we don't and
somehow the voices voices make
this sort of harmony hear
windchimes all these making us feel
okay more okay combination
making the we vibrations more
quiet every time we to sounds .
actions actions . the this the
against sound against the of
sound pause and just breathe
for for and and just breathe
for by ticking by again, we
breathe a

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.

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.

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.

five.

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