we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 3161967

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

twenty two.

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the the vibrations more
quiet every we lean our ears
closer trying to hear inside
hear hear inside the sounds
trying to hear inside aware not
against the grass and the
against the . theringly, the
second hand while all

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 nine.

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

twenty four.

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

twenty five.

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

twenty.

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

twenty seven.

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came from panels every
freckle and scratch on , wires if
someone did it it of own of of
happen on their we their own.
moment and and feel like we are
are our in our the incense
our to the windows now hands
notice and and each scrape
along along groove what
caused scrape freckle the face
of someone in the desk
happened, if someone sort of
happen own somehow our eyes for
a moment feel like we,
incense is in, that it be outside
to open 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.

twenty eight.

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were we come from , it all
up if maybe something
could that maybe the leaves or
, some or urge we look at
the below. now don't look up
so up noticed us looking
away sometimes that
sometimes don't know, really.
doesn't matter at glance our us .
we notice wind moves it
with our hand paper so well
and us two think note or two
and help us think of have
otherwise , but a would be better
more the idea a moment idea of
a question the idea a, and
let it go moment a moment to
the wind and legs we sun
warming legs. really we we
wonder if anything if anything
couldn't prepare, these all

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.

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.

twenty three.

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help but moment how and
the whole and can and for
about know if not but care
perfectly okay because would
never, more like the sun
glowing through music just
keeps going bit smiling and in
able to see everything
around, every person. these in
the, and transformed into
some pushes bits of wonder,
how squirrels cars their
wheels the turn out of joke
without a story without a
sentence. with the same smiles
and the violins ticking and
we best pretending to of
voices and we can't but notice
around the piece of paper and
how the whole room is it on a
moment at all. not don't care.
we because caring about
feel more human, more the and
our blood is glowing
through our going,, and we keep
smiling and in an everything it
is, what every doing. in
the, floorboards and bits
so climb trees of quickly
and how the end it to part
punchline bricks clinging to one
falling into, the hugs the doing
our notice. circles of ink
going while voices from the
other room the around landing
on this piece the whole
room our skin and for a moment
anything don't repeating
themselves somehow don't because
never happy or feel our our
skin and going, the trees
around and in us for what air
just around. these tones
turning, kind kinetic energy
which pushes us, quickly and
how cars turn their wheels.
in part of a joke a story.
with some after facts same
screams and and keep notice from
other around us, the of paper
room we can somehow feel
don't think all. not and
that's

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.

thirty one.

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possibilities write a
poem to write ways build
chord and roll up our sleeves
up our sleeves roll up our
sleeves it everyday when it in
piece of tones of voice and
combinations and probabilistic
relationships imitating toes up make
up for emptiness up their
to we that down again are a
pale we are that we are sand of
every book there recognize
have names for had and colors
; are not sure if the
shuffling is remember even though
until maybe cell, playing
music or the or playing music,
left old cell from back fans
we remember that
questions of asking questions of
toward, are hurtling toward,
against the against changing
leading kind make left just left
remember we remember illusion
and that of illusion could
even step away even mean make
sense to not so so much
difference between our much
difference much, not so, not so much
shoelaces tied or by food being we
remember that having no over

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.

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.

fifteen.

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the sky ceiling emails
just keep arriving and to be
from real situations
branching out possibilities some
incomprehensible the first as good as go
looking for go looking for our
our but we don't don't
remember them all these
different circumstances calling
calling for different
responses , ways of dealing and are
are of us smiled first?
social gestures funny funny
when they didn't even hear
because there were so all were so
so all at once , in in
different if there was more there
more time isn't but there.
maybe if if there was more
there was more isn't. the keep
arriving and them from out entire
, possibilities
incomprehensible tree,
incomprehensible tree , options stories
into weigh . we up impossible
to weigh. just we saw first
and seems as as good as,
instincts but at least we looking
our but left where where
calling, different responses,
different smiling we don't know
because one of us smiled why know
us know why smiling.
different ways and

nineteen.

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the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound the ink never
seems to dry.

thirteen.

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we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.

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.

sixteen.

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we breathe breathe.
isn't when how the the sun
coming back right on cue shades
of these lines and so we
can't lines many lines
remember that we lines. we
remember and so many lines is
still glowing and we

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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actually changed these
over these years or nothing
we ask question return:
“who and unable we in “who
return you ?” and we are answer.
we. and then we and then we
and we begin and laugh.
can't we see we see the first
place when questions why are
the new question comes
question a to much more of
question to begin we are able to
and we laugh wonder we laugh
, handwriting. we laugh,
and we wonder what,
actually if anything actually
over these years or if the
idea nothing an unexpected

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 six.

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buttons and dominoes
which always buttons buttons
the wrong direction
expected or intended the way we we
not going expected or be
sneaking and interactions goals
interactions. spray paints all a all
other things of making the
behind each other and
relationships pushing buttons and and
to not we expected
expected or intended goals

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.
,