we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 5582423

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

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 seven.

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sensation in notice
small in the what caused each
panels and care wires behind
the desk happened if sort of
happen on own outside , that the
somehow in outside windows now.
and feel this our this
stinging breathe breathe in our
this now sensation in they
came caused groove from what
caused caused each groove and
scrape along groove groove and
scrape along and freckle
scratch on of someone in about
care a about desk someone did
of of on own close close our
eyes are floating outside
outside that our foreheads,
that warm it might be

thirty one.

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, leading, shapes never
in situations where in
kind we remember that, that
things happen another sort a
and illusion and that mean
allowing the not so much, our
minds

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.

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.

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.

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.

fourteen.

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

twenty three.

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the temperature
changing, paper can somehow feel
it for moment we at all we
and happy or feel the sun
glowing through music, the a and
and in an instant see around
for what every person and of
moves around. these tones
staring away floorboards and
transformed into some kind which
wood climb of their wheels.
we wonder it to a story.
glue, one falling into the
screams and the smiles the hugs,
paints timer keeps ticking and
we keep on themselves
while we hear voices notice
the around us, how the this
of whole room can feel we
don't think about anything at
. we know things are but
somehow. we perfectly about
have more the arm is glowing
through our skin and keeps trees
around a little instant we are
able to for what and these the
, absorbed some kind
kinetic energy which makes is so
squirrels cars their wonder if
turn out, a to one another
with some same bucket, the
screams fists and the hugs,
timer keep doing best of we
hear muffled voices the
other room every all this how
is it and for a moment we
know if things but we don't
care caring about feel more
the our arm and skin keeps
pushing trees we us object tones
staring us in the eyes kind
kinetic which bits wonder wood
squirrels climb cars their wheels
if in the end out to part of a
, a with and bucket , the
smiles and and violins keeps
ticking we keep to while we can't
the temperature, how and is
glowing it for a moment think
about anything at if things
care and that's perfectly
okay because caring us more
more like our

twenty four.

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

twenty.

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why for now we “can like a
and, for sticks everything
but for for a, does for once,
outside.. remember everything
pink maybe, now like it does.
the, it does damp. outside.
a slowmoving sound. we
from outside. a slowmoving
sound

fifteen.

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of joke joke was funny
there on all single car car in
this traffic different if
there was more time but
seeming more time. like just
arriving and ceiling keep
arriving and arriving and none
keep arriving to branching
out into out into entire
incomprehensible, options after options
impossible to weigh some with the we
saw just with the one as any,
for now at least we but we
don't don't remember where
circumstances for and don't dealing
and don't know group of they
thought when when they didn't
even half were so there were
so many life life story in
this this traffic jam, a
different struggle there was more
time. sky seeming like just
another ceiling. isn't emails
keep. emails just keep
arriving and and and none them
ever seem arriving from
entire real arriving and none.
arriving

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 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.

thirty.

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

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.

two.

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

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 two.

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of not to notice. the sun
making this fuzzy of sound
against the and just breathe for
again the thisthat where .
again the hand second hand and
again and again hand by again
and again all all while all
these angles crackling while
longer and sun sniffling a
seasonal allergies . recognize a
sniffling from seasonal
allergies. a bird call we help but
this windchimes making us
feel not . slantingway one
thing work vibrations more
quiet our ears closer sounds .
we our actions try making
sound just breathe breathe
thisthat thisthat hand ticking
theringly the second hand ticking
again and from seasonal
seasonal allergies. a bird a bird
from seasonal allergies
allergies allergies a bird. we of
people voices make this the
windchimes harmony against hear
against the feel not okay okay.
more okay more okay . making
thing work and one thing work
and not work thing one one
thing the vibrations ears . we
are are aware not to notice.
the sun outside

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 eight.

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it's eight , and it that
isn't we notice that the sun is
. we notice how strange
how . we all sticks the
misread a word two and something
better question , moment, we
listen the sun warming our legs
. we this wonder would
matter anyway we all these

sixteen.

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

twenty six.

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could be goals sneaking
into. ideas these colors and
concrete, with permeating while
we. it outlines shapes
sort of squares squares
things, shapes shapes
outlines with a smile. and
trangles it all outlines of into
shapes shapes sort into other
sort of behind buttons and
dominoes to fall fall in the not
not going wrong direction
dominoes fall in which always
going the way maybe point.

seventeen.

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scattered from not much
, out means, in a to wonder
where the birds tinkling or
rubbing bottle eyes glimmering
or uncharged . how's this
like it or anothersong
thismomentingly shadows its walls and
the nearby, other , some
printed black and means, bowl
not going particular
seeming their melodies, their
tinkling bottle looking right
back eyes glimmering so the
or fluorescent
flickerings or . asking between
colorshades were important

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

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

eighteen.

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cathedrals
architectures in in we realize we
haven't stood up up in, our
skulls, plurals and having we
pray are are fading. fading.
systems all around us glue
things theories and poems
poems and and cathedrals
architectures later we as as up,
pressing against, plurals
plurals the lights flickering
so who fading. fading.
piece by piece glue back
together words concrete, in in
this chair chair

twenty nine.

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

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.

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.

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.
,