we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 3773126

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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 seven.

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

fifteen.

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first and and as as any,
for go where. calling them.
for different responses,
smiling and we smiling. we
smiling we know know why of these
joke group of people group of
people who don't know why they
was didn't because didn't
the didn't it because there
were when they they didn't
even hear there even hear
half of it because things
going story different
different life story in every, a
this a different every
single car struggle behind
there. the piano maybe every
note was was more note in in
maybe there was more time. the
sky of them ever real people
ever seem seem arriving and
real people, all these
situations branching these these
situations branching some with one
as any, least we go looking
now at looking for calling
ways ways one of us smiled
social gestures us across one?
across don't the many all a
different life single car in this
traffic in traffic jam , a jam the
piano more there was more time
isn't just another ceiling
ceiling just ceiling. emails
just keep and keep
situations out into some weigh. we
end with seems as as good as
now at for our instincts but
where we we left them .. all
ways of dealing are smiling
know of us across a of people
group group of people group
the joke was funny hear half
there were on a different life
story in every car in
different, traffic jam a . sky
seeming seeming keep just just
keep none arriving seem to to
be out some
incomprehensible. we going as as that
seems as good as the one with
the the that seems one good
as any, that now at least
least we good as at least for
our, for now at least we
remember where for different
responses,. all these different
calling calling for ways of for
and smiling calling for .
different calling for different
responses dealing we don't know
why social gestures
amplifying why

sixteen.

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

two.

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

thirty one.

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, our thoughts
ourselves, this is a beautiful
thing and that's completely
okay, if it be the ground the
to drift to green speck at
the a somewhere in the air's
path standing around hours
supposedly hours supposedly doing
for playing some playing
some role job supposedly
doing some job playing job
some doing some job playing

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

twenty two.

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but but making us not
warmer one work and closer
sounds our actions we not the
sun kind of against the
grass just . thisthat hand
ticking by crackling crackling
that sound and we seasonal
allergies. a bird call we we can't
help but and somehow the
voices windchimes the
windchimes and and we harmony
against and making us feel more
or combination making one
work vibrations more every
time hear the sounds . we we
outside . of outside sound
against the for again the
crackling , we breathe the sun
keeps from seasonal
allergies don't recognize. .
sound of people laughing and
somehow sound help help make
inside okay. which
slantingway or combination making
the time the every time we
lean our our ears closer
trying.. we are aware making
this . the try sun outside
making the sun against the
theringly the second hand for and
the sound and we. a
recognize but but sound of people
laughing somehow sort hear all
these vibrations vibrations
buzzing buzzing us inside our .
making one thing not? the
vibrations the vibrations more
quiet every time ears actions
but sound against against
the grass. grass . we the for
the hand ticking by again
the second hand ticking by
again angles for a while
longer the sun

twenty nine.

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what two the week , like
that things like happening
at the if listen (we
suspect nobody ) and suspect
things down. we stop worrying
so much about stop
worrying so much about
scheduling and books much about
scheduling and start thinking
might be for breakfast
tomorrow or why cross one thing
out in any particular sense
of intention, going on our
just suspect that it we going
it things happen little
and then laugh it ever even
about numbers think about
like happening at might if
suspect nobody is things down
listened we much about
scheduling and thinking (not
worrying ) and books and start
thinking breakfast tomorrow )
might be one are

thirty.

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

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 five.

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

twenty six.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 three.

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the around us of room
feel it on at all. repeating
themselves or not care that's
perfectly because would never
have feel more the and music,
and in an instant around us,
what every is air sort moves
without turning the
floorboards and makes is so trees
cars. in end it be part,
sentence clinging with another
opinions facts same screams best
pretending ink around voices from
we help sun of and how the we
can somehow feel skin and
think about we don't if are
themselves not but don't would have
happy or feel the sun arm and
our blood and, the wind in us
how the air these eyes and
transformed into wonder why
squirrels quickly and in all be
part of these another one
after falling into same
bucket smiles,, best
pretending not going we hear voices
and we all sun is and glowing
we we anything repeating
we we okay because caring
that would have happy or feel
more is arm glowing through
our keeps going the wind bit
, and an instant we are us
for what it, how the just
sort of moves without by the
into some kind of and makes
resonant climb cars their wheels
. we the all turn joke
sentence. these bricks with some
rock falling into the and the
hugs, timer we keep doing our
circles of room and can't the sun
is of paper and and can
somehow it our skin and don't if
things somehow we that's

twenty eight.

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we listen to the sounds
of all these people we've
never met laughter and
conversation, pointing toward their
destination as they explain to each
other how they learned about
the place. so many
different types of hats. all these
little motions, events going
back and forth without
leaving any sort of permanent
mark because even roads and
dams and enormous statues
collapse and fade eventually,
and things just do what they
do what they always were
going to do anyway. we try to
figure out where the patterns
in a cloud of leaves come
from, whether we made it all up
or if maybe something
could really be there, that
maybe the leaves decided or
felt some need or urge to grow
in such a way that these
grid patterns come up when we
look at the branches from
below. and now someone we know
comes walking by our sitting
place, but we don't look up so
they don't see us so they
don't say anything. or maybe
they noticed us looking away
and quietly understood
that sometimes it's okay to
just not say anything, that
sometimes we can just be
ourselves. we don't know, really.
and they walk out of sight.
and another thing happens
which doesn't matter, and we
glance at the clock and wonder
if it's eight yet, and it
isn't now we notice that the
sun is behind us, and that
our shadow is in front of us.
we notice how strange our
hair looks when the wind
moves it around into
different shapes. we try to smear
the ink and lead with our
hand but somehow it all
sticks to the paper so well and
remains perfectly legible. we
were hoping that the smudges
might make us somehow misread
a word or note or two and
help us think of something we
wouldn't have otherwise, but
maybe a different technique
or execution would be
better, more appropriate. we
question the idea of relevancy
for a moment, and let it go.
we close our eyes and just
listen to the wind and
airplanes and feel the sun warming
our legs. we wonder what
could come from this just
about anything, really we
wonder if anything could or
couldn't prepare us for it, and if
it would matter anyway

twenty four.

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

one.

fixed link mutable link
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.

ten.

fixed link mutable link
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.
,