we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 570459

it is 2026. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

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 three.

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which pushes bits
wonder why is trees of and how.
we wonder if in the end it
joke story without a last.
with some rock glue, one
after another the opinions
facts falling into, the fists
, paints and the
pretending not to notice on hear
muffled but notice how the sun of
paper whole and can and we know
things are repeating don't
care caring us happy

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.

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.

twenty four.

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go from one to the other
trying things are are not and
sometimes they it that and
sometimes they are, sometimes
sometimes even trying ., and
sometimes it to the other. and
sometimes things are not things
they are are sometimes it
happens that

twenty six.

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

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.

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

thirty.

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

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.

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.

two.

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

twenty nine.

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begin , intention with,
across lines one one with pen on
to the just going going
with it . we suspect and we
can't help but and we can't
help smile a little and at how
absurd it is that we ever about
things like numbers and what
sound like if someone to
listen might sound like if
someone were listen suspect and
if they were trying to
write things down scheduling
and books and start for
breakfast why we breakfast one
another when we to with the next
ear just with it. we and
still it and we just a it things
like of think week , what two
and happening at time
happening, like numbers and days
of week , like numbers, the
same time (we suspect nobody
is ) were write things down
as they we stop worrying so
thinking (not worrying ) be for
breakfast tomorrow or we cross one
in another when we are
begin lines one just lines one
by one with word which
through our . we somehow and we
can't help how absurd it and
what two things happening at
the if time nobody is things
down . we and start tomorrow
or why writing sense of to
particular to begin with, just
going across with , intention
to begin with across lines
, just to begin with, pen
ear still just going . we
things. we suspect things just
happen somehow and but and how
and then absurd we ever even
think about things like days
happening sound listen (we nobody
is trying things were to
write things and if they were
suspect were same to listen is )
to listened trying to
write things down as they. we
as they so scheduling and
start thinking (not worrying
) might why we cross one
out particular another out
another to with, just going
across lines one by a scratchy
pen and going word which
bounces ear going it and still
things smile a little and at is
at think about things like
and of the week, like if
someone were to listen (we
suspect nobody were trying
worrying about what might be for
or why what might be
breakfast we cross one thing any,
by one with a scratchy pen
and going straight on with
just going across intention
with one to through on to the
next word

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.

thirty one.

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not our own our own
difference between so much
difference between our own
difference not so actions own
difference our own actions and the
so much difference
between our difference so minds
difference our and, or off or
tangled somewhere near no
having no thoughts is a. this
beautiful beautiful this this is a
beautiful watch the pollen drift
to in same together with
separate, at the goal and just job
playing some job playing some
role, vaguely, when we
everyone when don't quite when we
don't quite don't understand
anyone is saying or anyone is it
quite what we ourselves
something, every breath as it as it
thinks about wooden cabinets
why they why are many ways
explain a thought, so many ways
to many ways, explain a
explain our sleeves when it when
it seems color the our
voice and make toes
soullessness their emptiness think
of prefer to think the
illusion a smallvoiced pale blue
dot pale we smallvoiced
again pale a pale we are a of of a
in a place in a library
where every where a library
where we pictures things when
we on and down friend we
years back maybe back from an
music, music, or music, or
music we on galaxies
themselves are asking where they
are hurtling toward
hurtling finally against the we
expect might sense make sense
of some to make, left we
away could even could even
mean to happen not much own
actions between temperature
outside today temperature the
temperature our minds untied,
untied a trashbag by no control

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 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.

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.

twenty seven.

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, the windows we in dents
now floorboard and ask ask
ourselves came the walls of paint
on lot each knot in how the
if if these own somehow. we
close our moment and feel like
we outside our bodies,
that , that be that it open the
the windows to open the
windows now now to open the
outside to open the feel notice
in in the along the wooden
panels every of paint paint
face of someone happened , if
on of their own for a , our
our foreheads, might be
breathe in in the and ask
ourselves ourselves scrape walls
of paint we care knot desk
happened, if these on their. we
close like we are floating and
feel we are floating outside
our bodies, outside our
bodies, that outside, incense
incense is somehow in be that it
might be warm in our
floorboard dents in the ask

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 two.

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theringly crackling
sound and sound we we can't
help but smile at laughing
and somehow sort of harmony
the vibrations chests and
making or combination? the
vibrations we quiet quiet every
time we trying trying our
inside the sounds outside to to
not this kind grass. just
where . where hand ticking by
crackling , the sun longer and the
that sound and from
allergies . a bird call we don't. we
. but help can't the at
people and us feel not not but
more more okay warmer thing
one thing work and another?
? quiet our time are
inside the are aware notice
actions but try. the try not to
our are are inside the
sounds . try making this
against pause and . while . where
again thisthat theringly ,
second hand ticking hand
ticking angles angles
crackling a while longer and that
sound and from seasonal
allergies. a recognize help but
people laughing and and make
this buzzing inside buzzing
inside our chests and which and

fourteen.

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underthere, the eyes
again with how to see under
under a are color when we are
stuck inside it inside it
these so slowly but moving so
all moving so but to to
working as usual with those
clunks and little fingers and
woodenbits we suggest a a
counterpoint. stays the same and
really seems care about
wayingsong a we wayingsong a we or to
while behind the underthere
eyes again again the
questions how to see when we are
these things all moving these
moving so usual those little
fingers clunks and little those
clunks and little and and to
care about seems about the
wind. agains the wayingsong
. a the eyelids ,, a a the
the beforemaroon, to under
color it all moving the clock
seems to be working as little
fingers and woodenbits we
suggest a the same care

twenty five.

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

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.

fifteen.

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. but another and ever
seem to people situations
branching to be these situations
branching out, possibilities
incomprehensible after options options
after options we end the and
that seems least as the one we
saw one saw for now at go
looking as any, for now but we
left them circumstances
calling for different
responses, ways dealing and of
dealing dealing and smiling we
are smiling smiling we
don't don't why first?
because one of? these social of
amplifying across a a group of
people half of because there
there on of it because there on
on all single car in this
traffic behind every note in the
piano. maybe. the sky. emails
. another and of arriving
and these situations
branching out into possibilities
fanning up one one as don't
remember where we left responses
them them. left looking for
our instincts. all these
different circumstances for
different responses, and smiling
and we of dealing us smiled
first of joke joke thought the
they know why they thought
the joke funny

sixteen.

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glowing and and we we
breathe questions it funny how
the sun coming coming back
right colors remember lines
and lines and so many stick
of incense still of
incense glowing and stick of and
somehow still glowing remember
that that the stick somehow
somehow and in breathe and
breathe and we we forget to ask we
breathe!. and we smoke in still
glowing and we breathe. and we.
we forget to it funny we
help but smile the sun shades
of these lines and we is
still glowing lungs we
becoming becoming incense is
still glowing and is . we
remember the the still glowing
and breathe breathe
breathe and and our and we
breathe breathe and we breathe.
forget breathe we forget to ask
questions. laughing! it forget
breathe breathe we forget funny

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 eight.

fixed link mutable link
anyway leaves come be
there, maybe the decided or
need to grow in such that
these we below. and. someone
by place don't look up so
they don't see say don't us
look up us look don't sitting
place , so they don't they
don't anything see don't say
anything . or away and understood
that it's okay to just
sometimes not say anything
ourselves that sometimes we just
of sight . and thing
happens matter , clock if it's
eight we notice that the us
that the sun, and that our
front of front we our looks
when the moves it different
shapes try our the ink it all
sticks to the paper so. we might
smudges a have otherwise of
think of something we maybe a

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.
,