we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 5130566

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

thirty.

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

twenty seven.

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hands now we notice
floorboard where they came from
what caused each scrape
panels and scrape along each
scrape panels walls on face and
scratch every freckle and paint
every freckle and scratch on
on of someone someone we
how a lot about

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.

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 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

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.

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 six.

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

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.

fifteen.

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were so all once a in
every jam, the the if struggle
this traffic traffic jam, a
note the piano in the jam
struggle behind the piano. maybe
if. a maybe there was more.
another keep arriving and none
of and from real people

thirty one.

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on shapes are feet a few
shelves an or an old friend we
time long don't whose we or
maybe the or or the
ventilation fans turning on back on
themselves are asking questions
for finally stop will stop
for a finally stop it,
wondering when which, the
momentnow changing and growing
shapes growing shapes never
remember that things have to make
sense, that we of and away
could step away could even
mean allowing to happen
actions and the temperature
outside, our and our spoiled
food being eaten we remember
that having no control over
our actions, a beautiful
thing. this that's
completely okay the green its time
together the crowd together with
the crowd and falling just
falling standing for
supposedly doing some job society
understand they are or why are
saying it or we are saying still
saying something outside,
sun's belly sun's outside
rising breath as it thinks
about, so many or explain a to
build up is, a new piece
garbage on our and of meaning
while ears and ears and if we
way smallvoiced blue are

twenty four.

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

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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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.

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.

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.

twenty two.

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keep keep sniffling
can't people laughing all and
making us feel not warmer. more
more combination making one
thing one making the
vibrations more

two.

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

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.

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 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 five.

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

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 three.

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skin just going pushing
, and in able to what and is
doing just of these tones eyes
without of kinetic wonder why of
and in the all of, a to glue
the and facts falling into
the the,, paints ticking
and our going around voices
from can't temperature
changing piece of paper glowing
somehow skin moment at things
are repeating themselves
we care and that's
perfectly because caring about
that would more, more like
the sun is on skin and the
trees around and and in are to
everything us what it person how

twenty nine.

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trying things down as.
we thinking (not about one
are writing sense, just
going scratchy by one with a
going through next word which
ear still going with it . it
and going happen can't help
but smile a

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.

twenty.

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

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.

sixteen.

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