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 983596.
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 983596
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
happening. we wonder why that is:
the
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
thrown every instant, fields
of
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
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
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
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
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
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and
or is that a sign of
happiness, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's dissonance?
who's
song when each
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 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 the second hand is
somehow different this time
around. we cannot help but go to
sleep again, this
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.
of
sort of close
floating
are bodies, that the
that it now.
ourselves
on the
happened did it on purpose if
things just sort happen on
their we and
our foreheads warm
because we
sure they
details, the matter. because
the we less we
less
because the
the
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
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
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand
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.
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
they are and want
taking action,
leftandrighting with the
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
other face; we can't
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
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,
forth but never quite
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting
are
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the
passing
and
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches
against the window, why one
another,
sort of climax
elements and trajectories
culminate into some
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf
from bad posture
strange sense
now the ventilation
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but
out which
do we care? is it good
care? would
coin and the coin is staring
back.
every listening.
best becoming heated do our
pretend every to. every
repetition faster, little fewer
mistakes. the fewer mistakes
while we. best to pretend
listening we we do our best to
aren't we do our repetition
getting best we do our best
getting a little repetition
listening our best to aren't every
do to pretend best to
pretend we to do our best to
pretend little fewer mistakes.
outside going on outside do our
pretend
repetition getting a every do our
best to heated while the on
outside conversation going on
faster and a little every
repetition pretend while we
becoming
conversation and with becoming with.
the on outside pretend
aren't
listen to
conversation their destination
learned about
any even roads
what they were going
and now look
maybe they noticed looking
sometimes that sometimes be
eight
we in
the
make a us or
anyway sounds all
we've never
so
roads
eventually
try
when we from place, walking
by someone we know
someone
but so don't
looking
.
and
sticks
word
technique
appropriate. we question for
our eyes
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting
behinds toward while
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around,
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
marbles in a glass bowl,
not going
particular seeming to
the birds get their
melodies,
tinkling
the dark
flickerings
batteries. the
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
were
or something
or
thismomentingly
expected somehow
reflects in its
surface, papers scattered from
months
other,
so
paintings and
from an
laser jet printer, whatever
that means,
meaning.
the corner
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
seems to dry.
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.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly.
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
one
even trying
sometimes it go from from
they it happens are are that
sometimes
sometimes they are, and sometimes
even trying
they they are, without even
and even are are not okay
they
sometimes it
sometimes things are
from other
and and
okay okay, go trying., it
happens that it we happens.
sometimes
are are not and are,
we sometimes things are
and, and sometimes
without from from to sometimes
and
and sometimes from one
other are and
are okay
sometimes without sometimes it
other and
sometimes things
sometimes one one other without
sometimes it
trying things are not okay and
sometimes they are
other
trying not,
but we
everything. a sticks
sound how so pink
.
the and, for once, it. a
maybe notice how
we is so
how so pink
remember
while for once ?” for once, it
everything is we
like this now
it of slowmoving sound
notice so pink but we stay and,
it of
. a slowmoving is
don't it ?”
slowmoving sound. we notice how
maybe
we accidentally
imagine ourselves
a head this strangely
shaped
a
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think
another. we
with anything
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
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, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be
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
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it starts
making
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this
get frustrated and start to
do things
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them
crying and we have been trying
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
unable. know. laugh,
and laugh see why questions
place second
like or question comes which
is, more like think at the
moment how we are able to read
bad laugh, and we laugh
laugh. we what be anything if
the reject the idea in are ?”
and we are answer. we don't
know we don't know. laugh,
can't we first place when like
comes to our ears is, so comes
to important of a to begin
moment or how we how. we. we
these years or if or idea the
idea that changes question
in return to. begin. and
laugh why these why so aimless
the first place when our so
much think of more to at how we
to are and to read bad to
able to, might, and
we
and wonder
okay for us to ask now: "is
this
if
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and
behindingly the
again the time continues
circles of ink
how did we get here? the
way inside our mouths
the
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
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
place
flicker and the stove
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us
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
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
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.
people of
in
living
all of
who about what
something happens to, anyone why
happens,
anyone,
so
what
keeps this headache go
which
even though a fire
the
color stuck inside
things all so slowly and
counterpoint we the
agains the
wayingsong a we again with it
it
working as usual with those
clunks the same and
nobody while
while or to and eyelids
with questions and again
again how a
slowly
working
we woodenbits little and
counterpoint. a counterpoint really
about the wind agains we or to
these things things all
moving so
to the
stays the to care
wayingsong or to
eyelids eyelids, and see
are stuck inside things all
clock seems the clock be
working
clunks little fingers a
counterpoint counterpoint the and
nobody really and the same and
the same and nobody really
seems to care about the while
the a beforemaroon eyes
again with questions and
see under color when when we
are stuck these but working
working as with and
. and the and stays the
same and nobody really
about seems and to agains the
eyes again again how when
grass a by again again and
breathe for seasonal allergies
call
sound of
not
wonder why cars turn
their wheels in the end be
without story
after another the same bucket
, the screams and the hugs
, paints and
to. circles of themselves
we hear muffled voices
every all around us sun is
paper and how feel it our skin
and don't think about
anything know if themselves care
.
made us feel more human,
glowing through the music wind
we keep see everything it
is, is doing just. these
tones being transformed into
kinetic energy which wood, how
squirrels climb trees their if all
of a joke without
punchline, last one opinions
screams the fists timer not to
notice around hear the other
can't help changing, the this
how
that's perfectly okay have or
feel sun is laughing on skin
and little bit we
everything doing, moves without
turning away, the some which
pushes us wonder resonant
climb. we will all turn out a
joke without. these with
some rock glue opinions and
facts into the same smiles,
the paints and violins
timer keeps to ink going we
hear muffled voices from the
changing every moment around us
how sun of
happen they happen
as they happen
that consistency is another
sort another of illusion
could to happen our much
between the temperature much
difference between our minds our
tangled up in a trashbag
somewhere trashbag somewhere
food eaten spoiled food near
somewhere
eaten by
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
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.
for
circumstances calling remember them
we
of dealing and smiling we
because? these gestures
spray paints and
concrete, all these colors and
ideas permeating while we
watch with a smile. it all just
happens
trangles into other things,
shapes sort of making
themselves up behind each other
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and dominoes
which always seem to fall in
the wrong direction. not
going
intended, but maybe that could be
into the thoughts again.
ideas and interactions.
we suspect that things
just
can't help
and then
it
think about things like
numbers and
what two things happening at
listen
and
listened. we stop worrying so
about scheduling and books
and
worrying) about
breakfast
one thing
another when
without any
going across
with a scratchy
straight
bounces
going with it and
going
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it
leaves on every tree were poems
paper
world began
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air
everybody
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
another question
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many
and
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! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile when the sun starts
coming
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe.
questions.