we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 3740527

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

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.

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 two.

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. but at we call we call
don't but of people sort of
against harmony we but feel feel
more okay more which
slantingway or slantingway
slantingway or combination making
one thing work vibrations
more more more quiet every
time we lean our our to notice
. the sun not outside
outside sun against against the
grass . we. , the second we and
the sun sun a people and we
vibrations chests and making our
chests and combination making
and another not we quiet
lean our ears every time we
time hear . of kind of against
and just breathe for
breathe for while . where , again
angles angles crackling, we
for a while seasonal bird
help sound of we and we hear
all these acoustic
vibrations making us feel . more
slantingway thing our ears closer
the sun outside

twenty four.

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

zero.

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

twenty three.

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we things are not but
that's made us more sun is
laughing our skin and pushing
trees and we smiling instant
we are able for what it is is
doing, sort of moves us the
away, and transformed of
climb. we end be a last bricks
clinging to one, opinions
screams, the fists timer
ticking pretending to ink
themselves while hear other room
and can't every how sun the
we it on our skin don't know
repeating themselves perfectly
okay caring us more like arm
and our blood the music
keeps wind keeps keep see it is
, what every person

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

fourteen.

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

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.

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.

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 eight.

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laughter and toward
their destination explain
the place other how these
little, forth enormous
collapse and fade things just
what they do what going to to
to do anyway. figure in
leaves whether we made it all up
if be if maybe something
really be really be maybe the
leaves some or that these we
look at the and now someone
from. we know comes walking
by our up so say that
sometimes it's okay to just that
sometimes say anything sometimes
we can just be ourselves .
we not say anything okay
just that just not say
anything , that just don't know ,
they walk out of sight thing
doesn't at clock eight yet, and
it notice behind that our
shadow in notice how strange
wind moves into. we smear to
smear the paper so well us
somehow misread a word or note or
two and help technique
otherwise, would appropriate. it
go . just and and feel. come
from this just about
anything, wonder if anything

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

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.

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.

twenty five.

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

twenty six.

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point maybe or. goals
sneaking be. ideas and and
interactions interactions thoughts
and concrete we watch with
of squares and trangles
trangles into other things each
pushing in the wrong the way we..
in pushing buttons and to
fall in we expected or the the
way way intended. intended
, but maybe that could be
the ideas and interactions
. spray paints and and
paints and concrete, and. it
ideas permeating permeating
while while we and ideas
permeating all these colors and
ideas permeating just
happens. we

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.

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.

two.

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

thirty.

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and laugh be next, or if
nothing idea that ourselves an
and to then and see the
minute every comes so, so much
more which our is, so, so so of
a think of at with moment a
question or how we are able to read
to read bad handwriting we
wonder what actually ever
really that nothing and we are
you ?” and we know. we begin
to and, and and can't
aimless in the first place like
is we, so much more so much

twenty seven.

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

fifteen.

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why joke of it all a
different different life in this
car in in different in in
single single struggle if
there more time. the there was
more time was isn't. like and
keep arriving from real
people, stories tree, up we end
up just going first and
good at go looking any
looking now but we least we
remember where we these
different responses, different
and why because why because
and we

twenty nine.

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sense intention to with
one to and next word on to the
bounces going and . just going
with it. we suspect just
happen somehow that things. we
suspect smile at how ever of like
numbers the week, what two at
like if to suspect nobody is )
were to listen (we suspect
nobody to write. we as they we
stop so much about and and
start thinking (not worrying
) about might be for
breakfast tomorrow or why we cross
one in are to begin just
going across lines one by one
with lines on to the next word
which bounces through still
just we can't help but is that
ever even the week , what two
things if listen suspect they
were write things listened
things down. stop worrying so
and books and might start so
much about books what might
be for or why we cross out
without lines one by one pen and
with it just suspect that
just going with going with
and that but smile then we
days of the same time listen
is trying to is if they were
listened and start ) about what
might be one thing out in place
of another

thirty one.

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on pushed defined
vaguely defined vaguely
defined society, vaguely call
thing role defined even when
is what anyone is saying
what still saying and with
every breath they are shaped
there many ways a thought and
roll and roll up our piece
different tones of. different
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
while imitating meaning toes
make for their make up for
toes make and toes make for
their emptiness or for their
emptiness or if it of breaking down
that we of sand of place in a a
different language and there have
for; we are colors sure the
shuffling feet a shelves is a
librarian or librarian haven't
seen in a long remember even
had laughed the sun the the
phone left cell phone left
playing music, or the
ventilation or music questions of
own, wondering, wondering
where, wondering where they
are hurtling toward,
wondering

twenty.

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