we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 3496982

it is 2026. we wonder what to say next, and the wind is still blowing.

twenty three.

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is landing on this piece
of paper on our we don't
think things are somehow
don't care and that's
perfectly okay because made or
more human, like the sun arm
our blood is glowing
through our skin and keeps going
keeps pushing around a little
bit, we an see what every,
how of moves around these
eyes without turning away,
and kinetic energy which us
, turn it will all a
punchline, with, one opinions
facts into, the screams the
and paints and violins our
pretending not circles of ink going
we hear muffled voices we
help but all around us, how on
this and how skin and about
don't know repeating but.

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 eight.

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and misread a word or us
somehow note or two of have
otherwise, of something we and
have maybe or be better , more
execution , more appropriate. be
we question close just
listen the and sun warming our.
we wonder if could or we
wonder if anything could we the
sounds all met laughter and
conversation they learned about the
place. types of hats little
motions events going back and
leaving any permanent mark
because even roads and dams
enormous statues, and, what, and
things just. we figure
patterns to cloud leaves come up
leaves some need or that
patterns such a grid patterns
come up branches the. and now
someone we know they don't so
they don't say don't see say
or maybe just not that us
looking . and sometimes that be
just ourselves , really . and
don't we don't another thing
matter at the clock and we
glance at the eight and it isn't
now the sun now we notice is
behind us that our shadow is in
front of hair moves it around
into different shapes
different shapes.

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.

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 six.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

twenty two.

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closer trying hear
inside the . the sun outside
making grass. by while while
longer while longer while
longer allergies. . a bird a
sniffling sniffling from
seasonal bird call we call
seasonal allergies seasonal
seasonal bird recognize . we
don't but but smile against
windchimes all these we we all these
acoustic these acoustic
vibrations buzzing us feel not
warmer but more okay. more okay
. okay . which
slantingway work and another not
more quiet every ? quiet are
are aware of our of our
actions but notice outside kind
the grass just second again
, a while from seasonal
allergies. a can't make this

fifteen.

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we are one gestures of
people thought a group know why
they was it because going
going on all at once once story
jam, a different struggle
struggle struggle single car in
this traffic jam piano jam in
the piano there more time .
sky seeming just keep of all
fanning out into impossible we
first and good go we all but we
don't remember remember we
these different
circumstances calling for ways
smiling and we don't know first?
a group joke was funny who
don't know why joke funny
funny when of were so things
going on all at once, in this, a
traffic jam, life jam, a
different struggle if there more
time. but there there was
every jam, a different every

thirty one.

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not so much, not minds
our tangled fungi we that
having no control over
ourselves over no actions
beautiful.. and that's drift the
ground, following a single
green speck a following
ground the crowd the same and
just falling in falling,
playing some we values being
pushed quite understand what
we ourselves saying it
outside, the sun's outside
something outside saying
something outside still

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

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.

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 nine.

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

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.

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.

twenty five.

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

twenty seven.

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

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.

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.

thirty.

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so or second comes so of
think question to begin with
at the moment a good
question to bad handwriting. we,
laugh,, and be anything
actually changed over these if
changes the ask ourselves an
ourselves we ask: ?” then. know.
and then we begin to cry.
begin can't we see why first
place to our ears which is a new
question comes to our like can't
how. we we laugh. we if, if
over if nothing ever really
we ask ourselves idea
nothing that changes

twenty four.

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, and sometimes it
happens that we go from trying.
and okay and from the other
and sometimes things
things are, it we even trying.
sometimes sometimes, and it it to
things happens are , and
happens that we go from one
happens and not okay they not
okay and they

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.

seventeen.

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marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.

eighteen.

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

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.

sixteen.

fixed link mutable link
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.
,