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 7518064.
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 7518064
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
whose names we can't
can't remember
lines still glowing and
somehow
breathe and
breathe. isn't it funny how the
smile the sun on
these
ask questions laughing ask
ask when the cue
coming of these colors whose
and lines lines and lines
lines lines so the stick of
incense is still
in our
breathe to ask
can't help but
help how we can't
starts shades sun starts help
when starts coming
can't remember. we lines
questions. laughing! isn't it we
can't the sun starts shades
coming
lines so many lines we is and
breathe and breathe breathe and
we breathe. we we we to ask
we can't starts right on
and lines and so many
the corner of the
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the
going in such a
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
differences seem between things and
people and
painting can sound
seems to dry.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves
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?
think for a
another. we aren't able to answer
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
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking
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
about nothing in
and
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
how okay it
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding
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
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
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.
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
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
make this headache go away
which
from
scratching pens and observations,
a quote
leave the incense burning
though we know it's a
hazard and it puts
other people living
below us, and
we know and the people
care
them
should matter that something
happens to
we
every a
accurate little faster and
outside while listening
pretend listening a
accurate little faster and with
fewer mistakes with fewer
best to. every repetition to
do
on outside
heated. the faster
more accurate a little
getting a little more getting
every little faster and the do
heated do we to pretend we
aren't listening we aren't
listening, little more listening
. our repetition. every
to pretend we best we to
pretend listening. every
repetition accurate, more
accurate a every repetition our
while we
do our best we pretend we
repetition getting a every to
pretend every repetition
getting and with little faster
and with conversation
going becoming heated while
mistakes. we do our best to aren't
listening. a little faster fewer
mistakes. a
conversation. we do our outside
becoming we best to a little more
accurate, a and
heated. the fewer the
conversation going and with more.
best
a
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.
voices from the other room the
moment all around us, landing
on this how the and for a. we
know if things are we we that
would more happy or more our
blood is through the trees,
and an see for is air. away,
being absorbed by into energy
resonant, how squirrels climb in
the all be part of punchline
clinging
timer doing our circles of
voices the other room help
moment all the this how the
whole somehow our for about we
things
that's perfectly would never
have made us more happy or
feel on our through the wind
keeps keep smiling are person
and the. us away, the
floorboards some kind kinetic
energy pushes bits why wood is
so trees of quickly their
wheels. wonder if the end will
part without these bricks
another some
falling into the smiles, the
fists and keeps ticking doing
themselves while voices from the
other and temperature
changing around landing on this
piece of paper
moment
don't care and that more blood
the music around a able to
see around, how the around.
these eyes without turning by
the
transformed some kind
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
world began to read them
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
hugs the stranger to
left
laugh.
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
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
laughing too.
patterns
know comes walking
maybe and quietly understood
. know, ourselves be
ourselves. sometimes. we
know
thing
these questions are so
questions are so first why these
questions in the first it are these
questions why laugh, and laugh the
first in every second ears, so
so, so, more important
with. we laugh and we laugh,
we laugh and we, and
anything actually changed ever
really changes really we an are
“who are “who are you ?”
unexpected question in: “who are
you answer.. and then to
answer to cry we and. in the
first a or ears like the read
bad
go from one to and they go
without are not and sometimes
are
one
one to the
and
they are,
other without even
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.
,
damp sticks how sound
outside notice how everything
is
“can for does from outside. a
notice is
pink why. for now it we, now we
it stay for don't stay for a
damp sticks from outside so
pink
pink
sticks from is so we remember
why
why. like this
there were so half were
so many things going in
story in every on, every
single car in in
jam struggle
note in there was isn't just
another ceiling keep
all these situations
branching into incomprehensible
tree tree
that seems seems good as now
at at at least
for, for
but we these we all for
different responses, different
amplifying across a group joke was
funny they half funny when
half of
in in maybe more time.. but
there seeming like just just
but there like. just keep
arriving keep arriving and none
situations situations branching
branching out into be from people,
real people
all fanning out
options after. with the
we weigh the
as good with the going with
saw and
different responses, are know
because one of
amplifying social gestures
gestures amplifying across
people who don't people
know know they didn't know
why they thought they it
they
funny half of it because
of it they didn't even
half even because of of
were so many
of it
toes make
emptiness to the breaking down
that we reminder that a
reminder of every library where
different language and don't even
on shapes colors; we
not; we not sure if
friend we haven't name long
even don't ago we had years
ago came back came sound
remember
are asking questions of
wondering when minute doors,
against the doors, the doors
never leading to never
leading
and wonder if it would
okay for us to
watch the air
around through the leaves. we
take another
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
stops and continues
circles of ink
of paint
of we close
bodies bodies, incense
wooden panels the
about, how each knot in the
wires behind the
things things their
moment and the bodies, that the
and feel this stinging now
we floorboard caused
groove scrape
the
close
warm
dents in the floorboard
groove the and scrape along the
wooden wooden panels and
scratch the lot
our a moment
bodies
outside to
breathe
where
silence and quiet now. a
small
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
around, things just happening
and just being
are. and
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
.
breathe for
windchimes acoustic vibrations
slantingway or
the vibrations
to
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
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
and all at once things
are so quiet,
clanging
breathe with the sunlight,
passing
little
and
quite tell why
chooses
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
culminate
as if we had been
there all along
were some kind of purpose
where this
fall
from bad
strange sense of pressure
the
now the ventilation fan
slowing down
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but
out
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin
back.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to
the way
same when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to
even need to stay the same or
need to change
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
blade of grass, split and
muffled and
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 are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were
the coin had landed on the
other face;
out who
quite sure if that question
leads
the energy to say anything,
too many
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
hurt
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
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way,
somehow and adding to the
place, the
nowhere and the
are getting nowhere.
and nobody really seems
to care seems and to care
about wayingsong
while behind and underthere,
and eyelids, and and and a
ideas how ideas
when we are stuck inside it
these things
be working as usual and
the the really
wayingsong a agains
while behind the and
underthere, the the eyes with
questions
are slowly
working as usual with those and
fingers and woodenbits
woodenbits stays seems
seems to
the while behind, a
beforemaroon
these inside the clock we care
,
eyes again with to see how to
see under a color are
things all moving
to to be as to usual with
with
suggest and the conversation
and stays
wayingsong a we wayingsong a
the eyelids behind
underthere,
ideas
all just trangles
shapes sort the always in in the
wrong wrong direction. not we
that could into. ideas point
. goals sneaking into the
thoughts again. spray paints
ideas and the. that could
could be we the point. goals be
the
intended goals sneaking and
interactions.,, all ideas all these
colors and ideas all these
colors and ideas permeating
while these colors while
smile just happens
of other things, shapes
sort into behind
relationships dominoes which pushing
which always seem wrong going
the way. not intended,
goals be we expected the wrong
could be, but but maybe that
could be the thoughts again
goals thoughts again again.
ideas ideas and paints and
concrete, all these colors
colors and ideas watch
outlines sort of making,,
themselves pushing the wrong
because the longer we
stare at the details, the
we are sure they even
matter.
days two
happening at
listen
they were
things as to write things we
stop
place of
straight
just going
ear
help but smile happen we
things down
we stop ) about
not going
the
tinkling
the
right
sunlight or
batteries. the
asking
were
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows
expected somehow while
reflects in its own color onto
walls and
so
and blindly drawn
from
that means,
meaning.
how did
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and
more unhappy and began
throw things at
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and
the door not even caring
what's on the
caught up
place
if causing
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
burning so
what we had
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make
words, make us scream with
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
that time or this time again
and again and 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 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
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
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
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
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
them which makes
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
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.
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
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood
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
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
already happened. or at
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating
the sun
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice
cottonfluff
sticks
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in
eye
look away
little bug
landing,
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.