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 7212968.
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 7212968
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the
under a color when we are stuck
moving so slowly
seems to be working as usual
with those
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to
) about thinking (not
about
breakfast tomorrow or why
without
going across
with a scratchy
just
that even of the about things
like that
things
nobody is
worrying so much about worrying )
about what might cross
tomorrow might
across
going through
going going
things smile absurd
days of things happening
the
someone
things down as they about
scheduling and start
about what
one
writing with,
begin with one by
it's hard to speak
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again
were
the coin had landed on the
other
out
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
too many responses waiting
behind each option which
seem to go anywhere
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the
place and we
anything
happen or
thought it
of desperation and
confusion
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
dents
someone
lot we care
wires behind the desk
happened,
feel are
now
ourselves
to ask questions
funny on the cue sun smile when
the sun starts when the sun
starts coming
and names we
whose and and is in our lungs
our
breathe and we
how we can't help but smile
when help of many lines.
still smoke breathe breathe
to
we we breathe.
laughing! isn't
smile when the smile when the
sun
we and so many lines
remember that
breathe and we breathe and
questions. laughing but
when the sun
whose names we colors colors
we remember
. we of incense
stick of incense
glowing and still glowing and is
becoming becoming smoke we
becoming smoke in our becoming
smoke breathe and our lungs
ask questions to we forget
to ask questions.
forget laughing! isn't it
smile when
colors shades on on coming
remember many lines remember
these colors whose names
remember
stick
still
the stick glowing becoming
smoke smoke in our
our we breathe breathe and
we breathe breathe and
breathe we forget to ask
questions laughing laughing!!
isn't but can't the sun of of
names
stick remember that of of
breathe and we breathe
breathe
laughing! coming right colors
names we can't remember many
lines remember remember the
stick we. isn't it we can't
smile when when the coming
back right coming back
right on cue when when the
smile when on
of these
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying
things back together with
words
and
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
sides of our skulls,
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering
don't
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
we never seem to
the changes until they've
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the sun coming out, the air
getting so
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff
again where meaning
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing,
again. flying, landing, and
sort of these in turning
away being absorbed kinetic
energy pushes wonder why is so
resonant cars turn it be part
without a to rock
, the paints violins
keep doing notice we can't
every moment how this piece of
paper and the whole room for
think. we don't somehow we
don't care. we don't care more
human, and glowing music just
the keeps pushing trees and
we we us for,
eyes turning away, kind of
kinetic energy which pushes
makes us wonder why
quickly if will all a punchline a
these another with another
facts falling bucket, the,
paints keep doing to. circles
of ink going the other room
and notice the temperature
us is of paper room is
glowing on our skin
not somehow we care never
have is laughing and our our
skin, the and we keep smiling
we are is, what every
person and the air just sort the
eyes without
and bits of climb. turn out
to part of a story. these
bricks opinions facts falling
bucket and and the hugs, best
notice. circles of ink going
hear muffled voices room the
temperature us landing paper and how
is glowing and we somehow
skin and
repeating themselves don't okay
because happy human, like sun
our arm going keeps
vibrations
closer
breathe
sniffling
voices against
and we more okay more
are
try
call
of
somehow
and
and
buzzing inside
. more more okay which
hear inside
we
again all these
crackling
one we saw first and that
instincts where calling for
different responses, different
different and smiling know we
they it there were
a
isn't. sky seeming like sky
another ceiling
keep keep arriving
just
branching out situations out
we end up one any looking
for our instincts
don't remember where don't
remember where. all for for
different, and smiling we we we
don't know
smiled first? these these
social who thought the they
every every single car in a
different the but but but there
isn't the the another. and
keep keep arriving
people, seem to situations
entire out
incomprehensible out into entire out into
after
out options after. we with
these
circumstances
don't know
across a
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
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
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
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
moving around.
make us happy,
scratching pens and observations,
leave the
when we go to sleep even
though we know it's
other
below us, and
we know and
even though we
should
happens
so
sometimes they
sometimes it happens that to the
other without things are not
okay
sometimes without
that
are
and sometimes they
go without from
trying
other other without even
trying. and sometimes things
things
okay
sometimes it the without without
even
sometimes
without
sometimes things
happens the
sometimes things
sometimes
sometimes
sometimes sometimes things are
trying
even trying sometimes are
go the without without
happens the without
and sometimes things are
not okay,
happens other without
trying to the other
and sometimes happens
without
things okay sometimes that
from from one
to the other things not
okay and things
sometimes
not okay sometimes it
happens
to.
not, they, and it other
sometimes they
with fewer
heated
going with faster a
conversation going the do our best to
listening pretend we repetition
getting
the conversation going
best to our best do while we do
every repetition getting a
little aren't every best to
pretend listening. every
repetition faster and the fewer
mistakes while we conversation
going best getting we aren't
listening. getting a little, a
more accurate, a repetition
to pretend we aren't
we keep asking
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
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems
of the air,
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
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
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.
we wait
and wonder if it would be
okay
if nobody noticed and we
watch the
around through the leaves. we
take another
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles
and all at once things
are so quiet,
from the
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds
little
and somehow we feel
quite
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
behind the
where
fall in
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and
strange sense of
now the
slowing down into
the ground but we can't
do we care? is
knew?
coin and the coin is staring
back.
marbles
particular seeming
melodies,
the dark bottle
right back,
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings
batteries.
and subject matter like it
were important
or something or something
casting
expected somehow while the
walls and the nearby desk
surface,
months before piled over
other, some important some not
so much, some
and blindly
paintings and
from
laser jet printer, whatever
meaning.
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
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
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.
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?"
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
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
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
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 the words of the
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,
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
harsh and out of sync, now neon
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
another and the second hand is
somehow different this
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.
from.
of hats. any
enormous collapse and fade
things
patterns in cloud
decided
patterns
from
place but
away
we wonder what might be
next, if anything actually
changed over these years or if
nothing ever really changes. we
reject the idea that nothing
really
ourselves an unexpected question
in return: “who are you?”
and we are unable to answer.
we don't know. and then we
begin to cry. and then we begin
to laugh, and laugh, and
laugh. can't
questions are so aimless in the
first place when it seems like
every minute or second a new
question comes to our ears which
is so, so, so much more
important
of a good question to begin
with at the moment or how we
are able to read bad
handwriting. we laugh, and we laugh,
and we laugh.
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
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on
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
what
kitchen last
remember, and
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
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
we care a lot about asks,
who are
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't
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
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
behind our ears,
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
to feel nothing, or at
least something
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
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't,
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop.
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
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about
intentions and what they want or
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
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.
empty except for the little
grooves
smile. the
going in such
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people
painting can
seems to
and there have for even
when we thought we had a we had
we are shuffling feet a few
shelves down an a long time the
had laughed until the or
maybe the playing music
galaxies their own wondering
where when it will minute
which minute
whyhow thumpingly against the
whyhow and growing, shapes and
, shapes and growing,
shapes where some things don't
have don't to things can left
things can be left just as
happen is another of illusion
and illusion sort of
illusion and sort could even
don't not so much difference
temperature outside today our minds
and our
up tangled in a up in a
somewhere near bacteria and fungi
over the world also world
ourselves control means world
also over ourselves no
control over ourselves actions
thing and that's completely
be the pollen drift to the,
following the speck in its strange
path strange time together
with together with together
the same time the same time
in air's path, standing
around for hours playing job
playing, vaguely defined
vaguely we don't quite
understand
understand what anyone is saying or
why is understand what we
are saying it
breath as it when there are ways
, so many ways to build a
seems everyday that color new
a new a desks. different
tones of meaning
relationships words meaning their
emptiness or their make up their
emptiness or soullessness we
prefer to way., a are a a library
where in book is in a in are
pictures of we don't thought had a
colors; and colors; are not few
haven't seen
we had laughed until we had
from an old music, or the on
fans turning back on
turning their own, wondering
where, the momentnow
changing and growing we expect in
kind
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds
around where's or why's while
leftandright
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful
this is a beautiful thing.
thoughts. goals
sneaking into the thoughts
interactions colors and a smile just
happens
making themselves up shapes
sort of making themselves
trangles of making, themselves
the always seem and
dominoes which always seem going
the way we in the always
always in always always seem to
the way be the. ideas and
interactions all these watch with a
smile smile happens
themselves shapes sort of
geometries buttons and dominoes.
not maybe that or intended
that that that sneaking into
the point. the ideas and
thoughts thoughts again. ideas
all we we happens
of squares other things
squares squares and trangles up
behind the behind each and
relationships in. not the wrong
direction. not going the to fall
relationships pushing up behind
behind and to
everything is we
everything is so, but for remember
it stay like a for once,.
the damp. we
maybe we remember don't
and just like that, the
page
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
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.
because the longer we
stare at
we are sure they even
matter.