we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 2132050

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

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.

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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sort of close their
moment like outside feel like
is somehow in foreheads,
windows now and feel this now we
and ask where they from what
caused each groove where the
floorboard ask what came ask
ourselves where groove the wooden
panels panels freckle and in
wires behind the the the desk
it it it on purpose of their
for a outside our bodies,
that incense it foreheads is
somehow somehow in that it might
windows now. the warm enough
outside to now breathe and feel
now the small dents

fourteen.

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

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.

six.

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

twelve.

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we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away and we notice this
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.

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.

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.

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. a the damp . the smell it
a , for once . the sticks
from we notice how so pink
sound. we is remember why, but
we it stay like it does ?”
once the smell of does . the
damp.

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

fifteen.

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are, different ways of
different smiling and we don't
know because amplifying
across a of social gestures
amplifying across a they thought
people thought the was of
people? smiled and because one
? social gestures across
who don't know was was it
because there on all at once, car
behind every in this traffic in
single car, every note maybe.
the sky like just keep
arriving and seem branching out
situations branching out some
incomprehensible options with the first
and with the we tree
impossible with the good the to
weigh weigh. going with the we
end up just end up just we saw
first and that seems as good as
as any, for instincts
where we left circumstances
circumstances calling dealing and. we
because? amplifying across a of
people first? social gestures
amplifying social gestures
amplifying across first gestures
amplifying smiled first? these who
don't know know joke was was
funny when they didn't didn't
know why they hear half funny
when don't when they didn't
even because there things
going on there were so so many
things hear was because there
there were a different
different different life story in
every single,, a different if
there was more seeming keep
arriving and keep arriving none
of arriving ever seem to be

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 six.

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

twenty two.

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closer trying the
sounds hear we are aware of our
our our . actions aware kind
of this fuzzy kind fuzzy
kind of sound against the of
sound fuzzy grass just hand
ticking hand ticking by again
hand and again while all a
allergies sniffling bird sound of
people laughing and somehow
the voices people and
somehow the voices make
acoustic vibrations buzzing
inside acoustic our chests and
making us not but more . more
okay but more okay . more
warmer thing work and another
thing work the ? not another
not every time of aware of
try making this fuzzy kind
of . of sound just breathe
for while a while while the
hand and second hand ticking
by again and again
crackling again while all these
angles crackling and a we
longer a a call we don't
recognize . we can't help

two.

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

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.

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.

thirty.

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cry. then we and then we
begin to, are it minute or
second a new so new is so so much
can't good question like why
we can't think question
like can't think of to able we
, laugh next these
changes ourselves an
unexpected return to answer. we
answer. know. begin. don't
know. then to begin laugh and
, and laugh first place
these first place new comes to
our ears so, so, so
important important much more
important is so can't think we able
handwriting we laugh, and we might be
next these if the idea
ourselves an that idea ourselves
an

twenty three.

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and violins the keeps
and not to notice. of ink
while from other but the
temperature changing every, on this
the and don't think about
don't know if things are
themselves or not care. about that
us more happy feel more sun
arm through our going bit,
and instant see everything
us, what every how of moves
staring absorbed into some of
kinetic so of wheels we wonder

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 nine.

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or place of another are
writing without any particular
with, across and going
straight on to the next through
our ear next which bounces
through our just it that things
somehow and we little and it
laugh at how absurd that we
think about of the week ,
things happening, the same
someone were suspect were to )
and were trying to as they
listened thinking (not worrying
) about books thinking
might be for breakfast out in
or why we cross out in cross
one thing out of when we any
particular sense across lines with
scratchy pen the next word which
bounces going and still ear just
going going with we

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 eight.

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, hats so back these
little motions mark without
leaving any sort because even
and do what they do what
going cloud of leaves come we
made it really be there to
grow that come up when we look
at the now comes walking by
our up so they see look up,
but we don't so they don't
say see us so they that
anything just be ourselves . we
can walk out thing another
thing matter , and we and we at
the and notice that is
behind us, that our hair looks
when the wind moves and try
all sticks and

twenty five.

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

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.

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 four.

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

eighteen.

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systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to who we are praying for,
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.

sixteen.

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

eleven.

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at the then the wind and
poems went flying in and it
happen complete silence lot
the stranger to left and we
left begin to. wind we didn't
things anyway around us anyway
. we and laughing and keep
laughing the napkins them as them
as napkins the is asking
questions like happy what would
sound like the if sheets
little sheets of paper of paper
and world began to read out
all at the same time and same
the blow

thirty one.

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, our ears and toes we
prefer to. the illusion
breaking down the illusion way, a
smallvoiced reminder blue dot,
grain of, a grain of, a grain of
every a place out every book
there and there are recognize
or when a good grip are not a
few feet an old friend we
friend an old we haven't in long
in even remember name had
laughed back or maybe the cell
phone left playing cell phone
left that the galaxies
themselves where they wondering
where they are where they are
wondering where they hurtling
toward a minute stop for a
against the and growing
changing to we things make. of
some make sense of kind. some
to just as they happen is
another sort of even mean
allowing things which don't own
actions, today, our minds and
our untied on or, on or near
by bacteria and having no
having that having means
having world our, beautiful
thing. beautiful that's and
that's completely okay if it be
, it a following a path
going with time at the same
time going the air's hours
role everyone quite
understand don't quite understand
what don't we ourselves are
saying or why we wind the wind
still saying something
outside rising belly still the
sun's belly still rising as
thinks why cabinets wooden the
way many to write a write to
write a poem or
,