x
we accidentally imagine
by andrew yoon
this is a book of mutable poetry. it exists along a
field of probability with an effectively endless number
of possible realizations. every time this page is opened,
a program generates an entirely new version of the book.
some elements change more often than others. the random
seed for the version you are looking at is 1131643.
because there is a seed number stored in this window's url,
refreshing this page or opening a link to this url
will render the exact same contents you see now.
if you would like to share or keep a link to this version of the book,
you can use this .
if you want to visit or share a random new version of the book,
use this one .
to link to an exact version of a particular poem,
hover over the poem's title area and click the link
which appears that says "fixed link". you will also
see one that says "mutable link" - this points to where
that particular mutable poem lands in a random new book.
try following the mutable links of a particular poem through
different versions and see how it transforms.
you can print or (if your computer has the ability) download a
print-ready pdf of this version of the book using your browser's
printing functionality. some elements of the display will change
to make it more suitable for printing. (you may want to modify your
printing settings to disable the automatic header/footer generation
most browsers do.) please note that as i make
improvements to the mechanics of the program, the content you see
here will likely change, even with a fixed seed - if you want a
truly fixed version, please use the printing method.
the code for this entire project is under the gpl3 license and is
completely free to read, use, and redistribute. the most up-to-date
code is available on github
here .
andrew is a composer, programmer, poet, and bad pianist. you can
find some of his other projects online at his personal website
here .
...
we accidentally imagine
by andrew yoon
seed 1131643
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we accidentally
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a
something similar and
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and
ourselves
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or
least something
getting tighter and we
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,
lead to other things,
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
never will, so it starts
making
this and
smile a little but somehow
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are
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.
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things
they are
always taking action
taking
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the
had happened in the first
place and we begin
anything actually did or does
happen or if we
of desperation and
particular, cycles going back and
forth but
somehow and adding to the
confusion
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting
we are breathing.
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
in the street while we ask
ourselves if this is going
anywhere
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.
keeps making that
laughing and somehow
warmer. making
another another another
the
theringly
keep
making
sound of sound. we.
while
sound
somehow
buzzing
but more
combination
and
just hand
sniffling
smile
windchimes
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on
scratching
leave
when we go to sleep even
though
danger and the
other
below us,
we
them
should
we care. and everything is
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way
same when they need
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.
these
many different of hats
all these of permanent mark
some
below know place but we
understood
really. we don't.
glance if
our when
the corner of the room
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,
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how
seems to dry.
new tones,
probabilistic of words and tones
relationships imitating meaning
while our while make up we
prefer we prefer soullessness
or soullessness their
emptiness or emptiness it that
breaking that dot blue dot, a
grain of a in a
library where library every
book is in there recognize
when we grip on grip on shapes
on are sure shelves old
friend we whose long time
remember we
though years back or maybe the
is from left playing music
turning back fans ventilation
fans turning back on turning
ventilation
we remember that own,
wondering, wondering
doors thumpingly against the
against the doors, the shapes
might be next, if
anything actually changed or
these years or these reject
that nothing really are you.
we. to we don't know. we
begin to cry. cry to then we and
laugh, laugh, can't we
laugh, why first place when
every second minute or every
begin with or moment or, we we
laugh we wonder we wonder what
we what
years or really changes ask we
ask
unexpected in return: “who to “who
and. and. to laugh, and
laugh. why these questions
are so the minute or second a
new question a question
ears which is a new so
can't think of good moment or
handwriting. we laugh,
handwriting. laugh. we laugh,
changed over changed reject
idea that nothing really
nothing really changes ask we
are you ?” and we to answer.
cry.,
laugh are so it our comes to our
ears is so, so, so
with at with to at the moment.
ever really changes
really we changes and we ask
ourselves an are know don't know
someone to
tomorrow
scratchy to the next word which
bounces through our ear
with it. we suspect that
things just happen
think about
the the sound suspect
nobody ) and were
cross
sense
ear
things just
and
page turns for us. the next
series of random numbers fill
the screen and we begin to
imagine dots and
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
because
stare at the details, the less
we
matter.
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
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
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
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
beautiful enough and it's
surprising enough
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.
, other
are
okay, and sometimes the,
they are that
happens that we go
one to even trying things
are sometimes, and that we
go from one the
from to the other without
trying. and and, and sometimes
that other without
trying. and
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some
behinds toward while again
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful
. bricks to another
falling into screams and fists
and the and violins
we the can't help us, is
whole room
about don't repeating
somehow we don't care that's
perfectly okay never happy or
laughing our through
able to see everything doing
, how the
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row
different
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we
sticks to
from. a million coins
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we
look away
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
and then
hugs the stranger
left and we all begin to
laugh.
another question we can't hear
because of all
poems, and that's just fine
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
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
and all at
from the walls,
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
passing
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we
toes even though
quite
against the
harmony
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into
as
there
were some kind
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf
fall in this rotting
notice a pain in our lower back
strange sense of pressure
now the ventilation fan
slowing down
banging;
the ground
out
care?
knew? we
back.
systems
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece
we keep trying to glue
things back together
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
flickering so subtly.
don't know who we
to
what we want, what
want. fading. fading.
tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
melodies waitingly, taking deep
breaths before the speech where
please, please stop this
cruelty? can't we see how
unnecessary it is?"
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot.
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
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
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
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data?
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word
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:
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
colorlines and batteries, strange
gaps in the spiral
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.
agains the wayingsong a
we or to while behind the
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
under a color
inside it
moving
seems
with those clunks and little
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation
nobody
notice from outside.
the smell of outside
but it stay for a while ?” and
of slowmoving notice how
outside is so,
we don't like this ?” and,
for
slowmoving from sound notice how
outside. a
everything is a slowmoving
remember
., the smell
smell
marbles
particular seeming
melodies, their
so loudly with the
sunlight or
flickerings or uncharged
batteries.
water. how's this
were important or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting
other, some important
so much, some
paintings and
laser jet printer, whatever
that
meaning.
breathe and
breathe and we isn't it funny we
can't how cue sun can't the
smile coming back these
shades of these can't remember
lines and lines and so many
lines.
that the stick of incense is
still somehow becoming
lungs breathe and
breathe and we we to ask
questions. laughing! isn't
we funny we can't
smile sun can't the starts
coming but but on we can't
remember remember remember
lines and
many incense still of
breathe and we breathe
when the right on cue
how did we get here? the
way inside our mouths as
we never could
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
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
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
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with
words, make us scream with our
harder on
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and
go looking
and why social gestures
amplifying across a group of social
who don't these social?
these social of people who
don't know gestures
thought why don't know why they
all a once in every all at,
this traffic jam, a a
, note in the traffic jam
life
isn't just
seem
these ever seem to out
out into some tree
just with the and that seems
as as any, least
looking for our instincts
instincts for our looking for them
. all, smiling. we
thought the joke was funny it
because there were so many all at
paint face we care in
it if it purpose of
on purpose of just if
on their somehow
outside
our,
this
floorboard from from
of care wires behind the
did it
sort
and are the outside is
,
stinging our
floorboard and ask
and scratch
knot desk purpose sort of
close
incense
hands
groove along
lot how desk happened,
behind the desk if just sort of
things
did it
their own somehow moment and
feel like we
foreheads, to open open the
small the
along of paint
of and
face
happened, if someone did it
close
open the feel this we
and our
freckle and scratch face lot
happened
somehow a, incense is somehow it
might
notice small dents
floorboard and dents
floorboard and in
where they the
might be be
more getting a aren't to
do to pretend we to. we
aren't do we repetition
accurate a
every listening our while we.
the conversation going on
outside becoming heated while
listening a little more accurate
little faster on with fewer
mistakes on the fewer mistakes
the conversation going
mistakes. little faster and with
fewer mistakes, a more a
little
we wait for a few minutes
and
okay
if nobody
watch the air just sort of move
around through
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
stops
circles
the geometries buttons
the wrong direction. not we
, but not expected or
intended. goals sneaking into
the the thoughts and and
concrete colors smile while we
smile smile. and trangles
into other squares and
things, shapes trangles into
other things making making
themselves up behind each other
shapes sort of geometries and
relationships pushing buttons and
dominoes which always seem
buttons always seem to the way be
goals interactions.