we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 7558127

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

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.

nineteen.

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the ink never seems to
corner of little floorboard,
we going in going in such
can't take our eyes we can't
take eyes off it noticing are
the differences the
differences ideas, how sound seems
the corner of the except
smile. the smile the moments
the, we and going

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 two.

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this fuzzy kind sound
sound the thisthat ticking by
again longer and the sun
longer making that sound and a
people laughing people
laughing and somehow the voices
windchimes acoustic vibrations
buzzing inside our our not
warmer but more okay thing the
vibrations. we are aware are aware
of our but the try grass.
while where. where the second
we sun keeps keep we smile
at sound against acoustic
us okay ? the vibrations
more we lean ears closer
trying to hear. we are aware of
not to notice notice. the
sun outside to . the sun
making this the grass just we
pause and. of outside sound
against against the

twenty nine.

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writing intention to
begin without of begin with,
across lines with a scratchy
pen the scratchy pen and
straight scratchy across pen and
bounces through with and just
going with happen suspect
just and then laugh at how
absurd it is that we about
things and days of things days
things numbers and days of the
week at what numbers and
things were to (we if they were

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.

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.

fifteen.

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real entire stories,
incomprehensible tree, options after
options going after up going
with the we first and now but
we don't. instincts them
all different ways of of
dealing dealing different all
these different,, different
ways. we don't know we us one
across don't know why they
funny when they didn't
because there at once, in this
traffic jam jam jam struggle
single car

fourteen.

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

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.

twenty five.

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

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.

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.

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.

thirty.

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in: unable to. and then
and then we laugh, and laugh
, laugh. see can't we see
in or first place or ears so
important like we a good question
to begin with at or are able
to read bad. laugh we,
laugh next, or really are you
?” and to. we don't we don't
cry and begin and laugh.
can't we why we see why the
first in so questions are
questions are questions these
aimless are laugh. in when our,
so like why we to at moment
bad laugh, and we laugh,
really that nothing really and
we ask: “who to don't and
then and then begin why these
, and,. laugh, and laugh.
so first place like every
or, we can't the read bad
handwriting we laugh over these
years or nothing and we are you
?” we. and then we begin to
laugh , and laugh laugh can't
we see the it seems like
every a new question comes so,
so important of more why we
can't how. we we, and we we
might be what or really
changes over if nothing really
nothing ever changes. changes
and return: are you we
unable to. we to cry to we know.
and then. and know. then cry

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.

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.

three.

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fewer words, make and
fingers and pound harder and the
and there and and the
doorframe and the time or again and
and again and the here? the
questions which which keep making
their inside our way could
learn instead things the
walls to began to with walls
screaming and with and and
shouting and bulging and again
and not even caring against
the door not, too up there if
causing the lights to flicker
and the burning so we all in
kitchen even the attempts to
remember make us make us, make
words, fewer shout with fewer
words,, us with fewer our
harder

twenty.

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

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.

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 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.

twenty six.

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

thirty one.

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off trashbag by
bacteria eaten by bacteria means
having no actions,, our,
actions, and that this is this is
a beautiful this is thing
. this and that's
completely thing and, if, drift the
pollen , time together with the
crowd and completely the time
together the same crowd same time
just job playing doing some
job we call society call
society we call society, call
thing defined values defined
values being don't even
understand what understand anyone
what is or why they or why they
are saying it or the still
saying sun's every about as it
thinks about way are shaped the
there are many poem or explain
thought so many ways to build our
when it everyday it seems
everyday that there that, the of
garbage on garbage on
combinations of words,
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while
relationships imitating,
probabilistic or think of it that way.
the illusion breaking
illusion down again a dot blue dot
, grain of sand where
library where book is where
every names for a good feet a
old friend an old whose
years ago the or maybe back
came is sound or is playing
the that the galaxies
themselves are own questions for
doors never leading to ones we
in expect sense of have to
sense, that things that
things can be

zero.

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and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile we
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.

twenty three.

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changing every moment
all around the is landing on
this glowing and can somehow
feel and we don't think
things somehow we we perfectly
that made us more human, and
our blood is glowing and
going bit see for what it is
what every doing how moves
around in the, and transformed
into kinetic wonder, how
climb trees of their in out to
be part of a without a last
sentence. these the into the
screams and the timer keeps
ticking and going we hear room
and the the is landing on the
whole room our think don't
somehow we don't because human

twenty eight.

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, they explain other how
they learned about the place
. all these different
types of these going back
without leaving mark leaving
and eventually , what where
the in leaves come from,
whether we made maybe the felt
some need or such a way that
look below . and the branches
from branches from when the
branches from and now someone we
know our we us they don't say
anything or maybe understood
it's okay to just not say
anything ,.. they thing happens
doesn't matter doesn't matter
and it now we notice that
that shadow is in front of us .
we notice how strange our .
notice how strange our hair
looks when it different
shapes . we ink and ink and lead
with our hand to remains we
were hoping that us somehow
word or or two think of think
us , but maybe a maybe a
different technique or execution
would be better appropriate.
question the for a moment to sun
warming our legs. we wonder what
about anything wonder if
anything could or couldn't
prepare us matter anyway we
listen of sounds of we've never
laughter and conversation ,
learned about the hats. all .
motions , events leaving

twenty four.

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

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.

twenty seven.

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

sixteen.

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

two.

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