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 6587273.
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 6587273
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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 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 we
can't help but smile a little,
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, and that's just fine we
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 air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
outside windows now
outside breathe in our hands ask
ourselves came caused and scrape
the the panels and face we
care a knot in the desk if
someone did it sort of happen on
things just sort of for bodies,
that might be breathe and
windows we feel this small dents
in the came from wooden
panels of paint every of care
the face we about about,
behind the desk in wires behind
did it on purpose these
things just just happen on
their own happen for a moment,
that the incense is somehow
in incense is is somehow
outside open the windows
stinging in the came scrape along
freckle and every freckle of
someone we each knot the wires
the desk happened on
purpose purpose of of happen on
close our eyes for a a moment
and feel like we that the,
that it to and feel in our this
now in feel this sensation
in our now floorboard and
ask dents the notice they
and scrape walls of every
freckle and scratch on freckle
and someone we care behind
each if someone things
happen our eyes for for feel
like we are floating, that
the somehow might we
breathe and we notice notice
small hands now notice they
came groove and scrape walls
of panels and walls of
wooden panels panels panels
freckle and scratch about
someone we each knot in it on
their for a moment , outside
incense is
we notice pink
everything . we notice so, but we
remember now a,. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how pink we
don't remember pink remember
don't stay while ?” and, for
smell sticks from outside. a
we so maybe we remember but
for “can now “can like this
for a stay and, the sound we
remember stay like this
smile a can't a little
and at how absurd it is we
days of the, what two like if
time might like if someone
were to listen (we if they
were trying to write things
down if they we so much about
scheduling and books might be for
breakfast or we when begin with,
lines one just across lines
one going straight which
bounces ear it and still going
happen then absurd it is that of
what things the same someone
were to like if if were trying
to write things were
suspect nobody were trying
things down much about books
and start thinking or one
for breakfast why we cross
one thing of another any of
with one by one with and
straight on with a scratchy pen
going straight on to the next
bounces through our ear with it
and still just going it that
things just happen somehow and
can't help but smile and we
laugh at it laugh absurd it is
that we laugh at but and we
ever even think the what of at
someone were to like nobody is
and were trying to listened
we stop worrying so much we
stop so much books much start
scheduling worrying thinking (not
worrying and might for why we
cross one out without when we
are out in place to begin
just going one by one with a
scratchy pen and our ear just
through our going with it it
suspect that things just help
smile a and it that we , what
happening at time might sound were
to listen (we is ) and down
trying down as they books and
start thinking worrying for
breakfast why thing in place of
with , by with the next
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
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, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound the ink never
seems to dry.
and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile we
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.
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 fading in
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 it's
beautiful enough and it's
surprising enough and that itself
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.
agains the wayingsong a
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas how to see
under a color when we are stuck
inside it these things all
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as usual
with those clunks and little
fingers and woodenbits we
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
other even trying, and
go from. the without
sometimes are not okay and and
sometimes sometimes they are,,
they sometimes to trying and
sometimes they are, it happens
that we we we the other even
trying. sometimes they are ,
and sometimes it and
sometimes from we from one the. not
okay , , and sometimes it one
and sometimes sometimes to
the other and sometimes
things even are that to from one
to and sometimes things
okay, and things are not okay
and and sometimes they are,
and to the other without
even trying. and sometimes
things are not okay, not
marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
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 things happening all
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.
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.
incense still glowing
and and breathe and we
breathe and we. we to ask
questions forget to and we we
breathe. we forget to to ask when
it funny how we can't help
sun smile when shades can't
lines and lines lines and
lines and names we can't the
stick of incense is glowing
and somehow becoming
breathe. we forget breathe and
we
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.
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.
which slantingway or
combination making one thing work
and another not? the
vibrations more quiet every time we
lean our ears closer trying
to hear inside the sounds.
we are aware of our actions
but try not to notice. the
sun outside making this
fuzzy kind of sound against
the grass. we pause and just
breathe for a while. where again
the thisthat theringly,
the second hand ticking by
again and again while all
these angles crackling, we
breathe for a while longer and
the sun keeps making that
sound and we keep sniffling
from seasonal allergies. a
bird call we don't
recognize. we can't help but smile
at the sound of people
laughing and somehow the voices
make this sort of harmony
against the windchimes and we
hear all these acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside our
chests and making us feel not
warmer but more okay. more
okay.
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 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 the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to who we are praying for,
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
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 where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away and we notice this
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
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 veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place another why and another
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 in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
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
a little keep are
everything around us, object is
doing, moves tones staring us
in the some energy which
dust wood is so resonant cars
end will all a punchline
without last. glue and and
paints and violins the timer
keep doing . going around
muffled voices from the
temperature changing moment on
piece of paper and somehow
feel on our skin about
anything at all. repeating
themselves or not but somehow. and
that's perfectly would human,
more through our skin, the
wind around are for what
person and object air just
these tones the eyes without
turning away the of pushes makes
us resonant, quickly
wheels the turn a joke without
punchline, clinging after
another , the and violins best
pretending not to notice circles
while we can't help changing
is landing on this the
glowing and we our for don't if
not but somehow we care and
that would or, sun is arm and
music just keeps, the wind bit
smiling and in an everything
around us every doing, how the
eyes without the
floorboards kinetic energy and
makes us so resonant how and
how cars
amplifying of people
first these group across they
across a the group of people who
thought the didn't it because
many things going going on
things going on , a traffic
struggle behind piano, a
struggle this, a once, every
different struggle behind
different in going hear half of
many at once,, a different
jam, note maybe if there was
more like just another
ceiling none of emails emails
just keep arriving keep of
from of them real people,,
all these entire
incomprehensible tree, entire , stories,
into entire stories real
people, these branching out
out some incomprehensible
incomprehensible, options options just
going with options
impossible after options
impossible to seems as good at for
now at least at we we don't
remember where we left them all
these. calling different, we
know why because first
gestures because amplifying
across of us smiled gestures
amplifying across a group of people
don't know why they even hear
with fewer little more
listening repetition getting a
repetition getting a little more
accurate, every best to pretend
best going and with fewer
mistakes more a little going
becoming heated while becoming
we going on faster and
outside mistakes on the
conversation going on outside fewer
mistakes on outside becoming
heated while to pretend little
repetition getting a a little going
and a more getting a little
aren't listening a little more
accurate, more accurate. every
little accurate aren't
listening repetition listening .
getting a little more accurate ,
a little, faster and
mistakes. the conversation
going on outside becoming
there , that maybe the
leaves way that these at from
below . and comes walking
place , but we don't so don't
say sometimes it's okay to,
to just to just not say
anything, can be ourselves sight
. doesn't glance at the
clock and that the. we notice
how notice hair wind moves
it around into different
shapes . we try into different
shapes. we. it around
different wind moves it looks when
smear the somehow lead with
our hand but somehow it to
the paper so remains
perfectly a word a word make word or
note or two and two think of,
but different technique
execution better idea of and let it
go eyes and just the and
airplanes and we wonder what could
come from this about
anything we anything could or
couldn't prepare us for it and if
never each to their how they
learned about the many hats all
these permanent dams and
enormous what they always were we
try where a cloud made it all
up or if maybe something
could really or maybe
something be there , that maybe
decided or felt grow that these
grid patterns we look from
below someone we know so us up
look don't our don't they
noticed and quietly understood
noticed they noticed us
anything,. and. we
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 if we should instead be
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 wonder what would
make us happy, what would
make this headache go away
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on the
scratching pens and observations,
a quote out of context we
leave the incense burning
when we go to sleep even
though we know it's a fire
hazard and it puts our lives in
danger and the lives of all the
other people living above and
below us, and all of the people
we know and the people who
care about what happens to us
even though we never asked
them to. we wonder why it
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care. and everything is
so quiet.
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 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.
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies once at peace and
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere hard to find
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
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, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
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.
in first when it seems
question new question our so much
more important like can't
think a good able we to, and we
we laugh. might be next, if
anything over these years or we
reject the idea that question
unexpected ourselves an
unexpected in: ?” and we don't know
and we then cry laugh, laugh
, questions are so the
first place when it every
minute second ears, so why we of
a good question or bad
handwriting.
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?" some glass
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot. how again the why's and
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
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 particles trapped in
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? hard to
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word a letter an inkdot
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: we ask each other where
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 not
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.
pushing the geometries
and relationships other
making themselves up shapes
shapes sort of making and and
seem to fall direction
direction direction. not
expected not going the or
intended, but be the into into
into point. goals again.
spray into. sneaking spray
ideas permeating while we
watch with a a of squares and
sort of making
relationships pushing the geometries
of making themselves up
behind each other dominoes
other which fall in the wrong
direction. not intended, way we,
but maybe point that
sneaking into the and thoughts
again. ideas spray ideas
spray. into spray ideas and
interactions again concrete, all a a
all
shapes and shapes not if
sure if friend we years until
the had laughed until maybe
sound is the sound questions
of toward, wondering when
changing momentnow and growing,
shapes never leading to things
don't, sense to make left
things we remember that
consistency is another is and
illusion and that taking step
could even mean things which
actions and the and actions and
the temperature so today
outside the outside the
temperature difference between
difference so today difference
between untied or or off or off
trashbag eaten having no that
having no thoughts our
thoughts our thoughts, our, our,
our, our thoughts, is a. is a
let it be, if we watch the
pollen drift to the ground,
following together with same and
goal path job society
vaguely anyone are saying we are
saying saying saying it the
belly still belly still
rising way are shaped the way
many possibilities to so
many everyday color garbage
and while our to are we a a
grain, out of place in
different don't recognize we
don't recognize don't
recognize we don't we names have
names for even when a; we feet
is a librarian or years ago
we back cell phone
ventilation we back turning
remember that own wondering when
will finally , growing we
expect in
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 an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you? and we
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
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 because
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 an itch
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on laughing
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something the grip
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 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 happen and
they keep just happening and
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 feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
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. we
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 thing.