we accidentally imagine

by andrew yoon

seed 1464637

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

twenty.

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

twenty three.

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but every how the this
piece and we can somehow our
skin for moment we. not. we
made us more happy human arm
our skin just the wind a
little bit smiling and in an
instant we are to see around and
object the around. these tones
staring us turning away, being
absorbed and transformed into
pushes bits of wood is so climb
turn their the end turn out of
a joke without without
bricks one after another the
opinions and bucket the smiles,
paints and and we to notice.
circles muffled room notice all
around piece feel it our skin
and don't about anything at
all. we don't or care and
that's about have made us more
happy or feel

thirty.

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why with handwriting we
be ever really unexpected
question in return: “who to
answer we begin to begin to
laugh, cry. then we begin
laugh see the first or second a
comes question comes
question our ears which is so,
think of good question to with
at think at we laugh, we,
anything actually changed. we
reject the that and we ask we ask
ourselves in return are you ?” and
we are.

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

thirty one.

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name we time whose name
years though the sun back or
maybe cell fans turning back
own, where they are which
whyhow which whyhow the
momentnow changing the momentnow
ones sense we have to make
left just left we remember
could mean allowing things
happen make sense which much
difference the temperature
outside much our shoelaces tied
our shoelaces on or off or
tangled or tangled up off or on
off, in up in being eaten by
no control over no having
we control no having world
control over ourselves no
having our actions thing. is a
this completely it watch the
we watch the we watch the
drift watch , time together
with, at same time going the
air's path, the air's falling
playing some role in this thing
we don't quite understand
what don't quite or why we
saying, the sun's belly still
belly, falling and it breath
as cabinets wooden
cabinets and why they so many
thought, thought, so a thought,
so many ways so thought
build to when a new sky desks on
combinations of and combinations of
and combinations of words,
emptiness or emptiness, a, a a of
sand out of place in
different in book is in a different
language of things are pictures
and there and are language
recognize we a few a long seen
haven't friend we an old we
haven't seen we seen in a seen in a
long whose we laughed had
laughed until sun came back sun
came is from is from sound the
maybe back the sun from an, or
the that the galaxies
themselves are own, wondering
where they wondering stop for
will finally stop finally
stop for a minute doors
thumpingly in situations where
kind some. we that things
that things that things
don't have to make sense, that
just we remember that
consistency is make sense to make
sense to outside today, not so
much difference between
tied untied tangled up food
being eaten by eaten by
bacteria and fungi we that having
no control that also
having no control over
ourselves our this that's drift to
a single green speck in

twenty six.

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and, behind the
geometries and dominoes which
always seem the wrong or maybe
that could could be sneaking
but maybe the thoughts
goals.. ideas and and
interactions and we we watch with of
squares and trangles up the
geometries buttons and and and and
dominoes. not going the the that
or intended the way we
expected or intended, but be the
the point into the paints
and while we watch with a
squares and things, themselves
up behind each geometries
of making each geometries
buttons

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.

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 four.

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

five.

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quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.

nineteen.

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

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.

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 nine.

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one by going across one
by one with a scratchy
going straight on ear going
with it and still just going
with it somehow and we little
think about things and days of
the week things like
numbers, what might sound like
if were trying nobody is
and if were trying they
listened . worrying so much
worrying ) about what might cross
out in are writing just
going across with, just going
across pen lines one straight
to the which bounces
through our just going with it.
we just smile a even about
things at the two things
happening of the what happening
same time were to

nine.

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we are breathing. and we
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
in the street while we ask
ourselves if this is going
anywhere if we should instead be
focusing on something else like
the way the smoke is
drifting away from the incense
stick, or the sound our eyelids
make when we blink. is there a
place for rushing anymore?
the softmurmurs again,
reminding us about our breath: and
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.

twenty five.

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

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.

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.

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 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

fourteen.

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

twenty seven.

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each scrape along
freckle and about, wires
happened these things on purpose
things somehow a somehow
somehow in our is somehow
foreheads, be warm windows now and
sensation in notice small dents
what caused they floorboard
notice small dents in the along
the the wooden we about each
the,, if of if these sort of
on their their own somehow
moment eyes for a moment,
incense is somehow our
foreheads, , might might we this
our now the floorboard
where they floorboard and
they each groove ourselves
came from ask groove and
scrape along the the groove

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.

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.

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 two.

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kind making this. the
sound against the grass we
pause just breathe ticking a
while longer allergies we
keep sniffling from
sniffling from don't bird we at the
voices make this sort sort
buzzing inside our chests.
which slantingway or
combination making one thing work
thing one thing work or
combination one one thing thing not ?
the? the vibrations more
quiet every aware aware aware
of our actions but but but
the sun outside

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.

sixteen.

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

fifteen.

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all these different
circumstances calling for different
responses, different ways of
dealing and smiling. we are
smiling and we don't know why
because one of us smiled first?
these social gestures
amplifying across a group of people
who don't know why they
thought the joke was funny when
they didn't even hear half of
it because there were so
many things going on all at
once, a different life story
in every single car in this
traffic jam, a different
struggle behind every note in the
piano. maybe if there was more
time. but there isn't. the sky
seeming like just another
ceiling. emails just keep
arriving and keep arriving and
none of them ever seem to be
from real people, all these
situations branching out into
entire stories,
possibilities fanning out into some
incomprehensible tree, options after
options impossible to weigh. we
end up just going with the
one we saw first and that
seems as good as any, for now at
least we go looking for our
instincts but we don't remember
where we left them.

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.
,