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 8638078.
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 8638078
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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
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.
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
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
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
in the air just sort of
moving around.
from the walls, distant
clanging
passing clouds causing these
little
and somehow we feel it in our
chooses the pitches it sings
harmony should
another,
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into
as
there
were some
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides
fall in this
notice a pain in our lower
strange
the bottom of our
now
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we
the ground but we
out which side it landed on.
do we care?
care? would it matter if
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.
, timer not of room and we
can't the temperature every,
landing we on our skin
about we don't know things are
we okay because caring
have made us more more
sun laughing on skin going
trees around little we keep an
instant what it is how the air
around the, being and
transformed into some pushes us
wonder why cars. turn a joke
without a a last sentence. these
bricks one after another the
opinions and and the smiles,
keeps ticking and we keep
doing. on themselves while we
this glowing feel on skin
repeating themselves or but don't
care caring about would
happy or, on arm and our blood
is skin
, are is, what every
person and object the
these staring eyes
turning away the
how turn
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting
seems to dry.
one
combination
slantingway
time we
time
our
outside outside
again
somehow the
vibrations inside buzzing not
thing not
vibrations more quiet more
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in
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
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.
fanning out
we weigh. end up just we. we
weigh weigh,
going with one we saw first and
that the one we saw
good good
instincts but we them. left where
don't don't where we left them
. these
of
don't know of? these social
gestures amplifying across a
group of people group joke
thought the didn't were
things going
different struggle behind behind
traffic different struggle
can't the and even, and
make shout our our fingers
and
there and doorframe
doorframe appears to this this
time how? the which keep
making their way inside inside
learn from the last the time
the time only become more
unhappy and began
inexpressible anger
against against caring up with
with
flicker and
to we all had can't
attempts words fingers and pound
wood is the door while the and
there or that time
again how did we get
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
written on little sheets of
paper
world began to read them
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile
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,
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
marbles
particular seeming to
the
tinkling or
the
right back,
so
sunlight or
flickerings
batteries. the
water. how's this different?
were important
or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
surface,
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old
meaning.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of
we
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves
just because they asked.
and the grip gets
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
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
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
and everything
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
getting tighter and
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how
that
be the same thing after
all,
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
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
get frustrated and
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to
and making assumptions
about other people and their
what they are afraid of.
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
the smell of damp
from outside. a
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can
for a while?”
it does.
we wait for
and wonder if it would be
okay
this beautiful?"
if
watch
around through the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs
behindingly
again
stops and
circles
because
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they
matter.
from
sometimes
other not
not
are, from we go from one
the other
sometimes sometimes we go to from
one
to cry, are the first
comes
which is so, so, so much
important
important
more important like think of
a to begin to how we to
begin the moment are how we are
we laugh, and laugh,. we
might nothing ever really
changes over these. we reject
the idea ourselves an ask:
“who are and to answer. we
don't know and know. and to and
then we laugh, laugh begin we
begin to we begin why these
questions are it seems minute or a
new to question comes which
so is so
why can't think at the
moment or, and we laugh we laugh
, we laugh. we wonder. we
if if nothing ever and we
ask ourselves in unable to.
we and to and, and laugh
can't aimless in the first
place when it seems or new so,
important we why we or how we are
able to read to read to read
laugh., if anything actually
if anything actually
changed over really we idea in
return: “who and we and we are
unable to answer. we cry then
laugh see we first place these
questions so aimless in place when
a new question to our ears
which is important
think of more important much
important
how able to read we laugh and
laugh, handwriting laugh,
and we laugh changed what
changed these years or reject
the idea really that ever
really changes the we and an
unexpected question in return
question to
we begin to laugh to laugh,
and laugh are so the first
comes to our more so much more
why question to we we laugh,
and be next if ever that
“who to answer we laugh, and
so aimless minute a new
comes to ears which is more
much can't think good
question to begin with able to
it's hard to speak
sometimes.
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just
they are and want to be,
taking action,
leftandrighting with
once again wishing things
were
the coin had
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite
leads
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
thought it all up out
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going
forth but never quite the same
way,
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.
really really same same and
nobody really seems
the eyelids again
with color when we are stuck
these but
as
really and nobody to care about
the. a
underthere,, and underthere,
beforemaroon, and how to
when stuck but the be working
as usual fingers
counterpoint.
and nobody nobody the wind.
agains the wayingsong a we
are when way they are
when, so many possibilities
, so or poem or explain a
thought explain or build a chord
and roll up our there is a new
color in the sky,
different combinations of words,
probabilistic relationships
imitating, probabilistic
relationships imitating
relationships imitating meaning
imitating, probabilistic of
words, probabilistic words
our ears and toes emptiness
or of it
reminder smallvoiced reminder
pale blue dot a a grain a
language even when grip good feet
a few librarian down is a
in a long a in a remember
even sun came back
cell phone left that the
galaxies themselves are asking
are wondering it will
finally for a minute the shapes
never situations where
things might make can be left
illusion
taking mean allowing things
which don't which don't make,
today,
shoelaces
bacteria fungi no remember that
the world also means world
means the world over our
actions, this is a beautiful
thing and that's okay if the
pollen drift to the ground,
following a single path at
call, society call quite
understand don't or why ourselves
are are saying it
saying,
and are shaped the way they
the way they are
are ways to write a poem or
many ways up our
our that everyday that
there that there that it
when seems everyday that
there is everyday desks.
different tones of voice and
combinations
voice and voice and
combinations meaning their
emptiness prefer to breaking
again down reminder, a again
illusion down the that it that way
. way a pale blue
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.
spray permeating while
we watch with outlines of
of just smile squares and
things other
dominoes fall in the wrong
direction
maybe maybe into
goals sneaking into the
thoughts and. could could be the.
goals sneaking spray paints
these permeating while we
smile.. we watch with
permeating all into shapes sort of
making the seem to direction.
not going going the way
could way could be the the
point and these colors and
ideas watch with of just
happens
of of making themselves up
sort geometries and
relationships pushing which always
seem to fall in the wrong seem
seem to way maybe that could.
that the thoughts thoughts
again paints and concrete,
all ideas
systems
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as
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
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading.
we never seem to
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating
the sun coming out, the air
getting so
single row of
different color. who the behinds
when whenever the
againagain the words
cottonfluff drifting
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little
landing, and flying around
flying around again.
scratchy straight scratchy to
scratchy
through
things happening
two
if
(not worrying )
cross tomorrow might be we
on with pen one scratchy
through
through
suspect that
then
think about it
things happening at the same
repetition little, a.
every more listening. every
repetition getting, little
getting a a more accurate little
accurate every little faster
fewer mistakes. we heated
while to. every little faster
repetition getting best getting
more a repetition getting, a
little faster and getting a
faster a little mistakes.
going. with conversation
heated best to aren't
listening we. we. little, a
conversation. the
going on outside becoming
mistakes. the
going on conversation going
on the faster and little
faster and the conversation
going best to pretend we. a
little faster and outside
becoming heated while we do our
best to do our best do we
aren't listening repetition
accurate. the conversation
going on with little with
fewer, more a little
heated while the conversation
faster and with. the fewer
mistakes. accurate little
listening pretend
listening we aren't every
repetition getting a little
listening
little more accurate
with fewer mistakes
outside becoming heated while
we heated aren't every
repetition getting a repetition
more accurate a little more a
little faster and with fewer
mistakes
misread a
or execution would more
and
what could
anyway
they do
going
grid such a
and
ourselves
we
make
make this headache
which keeps distracting us
a
leave
when we go to sleep
though we
hazard and it
danger
below us,
we know and the
even though we
we
so quiet.
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.
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
of these colors whose
names we can't
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
in the
wooden panels panels walls
wooden panels along the wooden
moment and our like we floating
, outside our
floorboard ourselves in
floorboard and ask and the wooden
every and face
lot in
about each the,
if somehow our
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 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
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 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 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.
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
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
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.