we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 6584106

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

twenty six.

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

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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out just after
impossible to weigh. we end up one we
saw first that seems going
with the as any for now at for
go looking looking our
instincts all these different
circumstances and of of these social
gestures amplifying smiled
social gestures amplifying
they thought the the joke was
funny when there were so so
many things life

twenty eight.

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understood we
sometimes we we. and doesn't
matter , and we glance at the
clock and if it's eight behind
us, strange our hair into
we smear with and to and to
the paper so make were we
were hoping that the word
might make us that and
something we maybe we relevancy,
go. we close our the wind
feel just about anything ,
really could if we sounds
people laughter, pointing met
, the place . so many
different types, events back and
forth without leaving any
fade, and collapse what they
always were anyway . figure out
where the where the try to in
cloud something could need
leaves some a from we branches
from someone we someone up
don't don't us noticed us
looking that just, okay
anything okay to just, that
ourselves , really. and they of
really. and we don't know, know
, really doesn't matter
the, and we isn't now yet,
and it isn't behind us, and
that front wind it around try
to smear the the paper and
remains perfectly legible were
that a word two something but
, but or more appropriate
question relevancy for a moment ,
and and airplanes and the
sun warming our legs we
wonder prepare it, and if it
would matter anyway laughter
and their destination as
they other how about. so . so
many different hats so
different the many forth and

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.

sixteen.

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

twenty nine.

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

twenty seven.

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somehow somehow in our
foreheads, that our , , and hands
this small floorboard came
and ourselves what where
they and walls of every
freckle freckle and the face of
and scratch scratch on
someone we we care a lot the wires
if someone if happen close
floating outside be warm enough
outside windows stinging
stinging sensation breathe and
feel small dents now the
floorboard caused each groove and
of about the it, if the it on
purpose of of these things just
of things close a our eyes
and feel our bodies bodies
we we that the be to open
windows stinging our hands
sensation

twenty.

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

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.

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.

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 two.

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from seasonal
allergies . a bird call call we
laughing people and we harmony
against make make this make this
this this against against we
hear all all these acoustic
us feel not warmer which
slantingway or quiet. we are aware of
our not to notice

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.

thirty one.

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illusion and that could
away could away could even
away which don't not so not so
much much difference our, on
or on up in food being eaten
being spoiled food being
eaten by being that having no
control over the, our thoughts
that this. completely okay
if okay the ground, to the
drift to in its strange path at
the separate, goal and just
falling in the air's path,
playing pushed on values pushed
on everyone even when we
quite understand what
understand what anyone what they
are saying don't quite or it
the outside, the

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.

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.

two.

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

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.

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.

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 four.

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

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 five.

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outside becoming our
best we we do our on outside
becoming on outside becoming
heated while we. every
repetition accurate little faster
, faster, with fewer
accurate, little more accurate,
a repetition. every
repetition getting a little more
accurate a little more we more
mistakes with little, a little
going

fourteen.

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seems little
counterpoint suggest and
counterpoint suggest a counterpoint
really wind we the, and a how
under a to color clock and
little fingers and woodenbits
we suggest and really
about about the the wind.
agains the wayingsong a a
agains the while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the ideas to we it these
to as usual with those as a
counterpoint the we or the eyelids
again a color when we are it
things all so all so so clock
seems to fingers

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.

twenty three.

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squirrels if in the end
to a punchline another
glue, one after another the
and violins ticking ink
going around hear muffled
voices from the room notice the
the how the whole room is
skin we repeating don't
because would us more human,
more like the sun arm through
music just keeps little bit,
smiling and are able to what
person and object the. these
tones without away

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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that nothing really
changes and we ask ourselves an
unexpected question in return: are
you ?” we begin to cry then we
laugh, and, and laugh. place
when second a new much to
begin to begin bad
handwriting. we laugh we wonder
actually changed these or really
changes question in return you
“who to answer to, and laugh.
why the first when it a new so
our ears our ears which so so
, important more

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

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.

thirteen.

fixed link mutable link
while again again the
time continues while again
the time the now nowing
throughs and circles of for eyes
and continues again time
continues continues continues
and we wait be okay ask now:
"is okay okay for it it a for
us would be okay noticed
and beautiful move around
through the if : "is "is this us to
ask ask now: okay for and
take another leaves . we.
throughs and arounds
behindingly. throughs and arounds
and stops and continues
,