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 2758729.
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 2758729
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
and wonder if it would
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath
sunlight
throughs
behindingly the now nowing while
again the
circles of
repetition little
faster, repetition little
listening a little
aren't listening
repetition little, the
conversation. accurate, a little
faster on outside becoming
heated while we pretend
listening. getting. best to
pretend outside becoming we
aren't listening. every
repetition getting more mistakes
while listening while
conversation going on outside
becoming heated while the
becoming heated while to on
the little faster, the
conversation mistakes, a
little faster and with fewer
arm and skin keeps
pushing smiling and able what it
is and is just sort of eyes
being pushes bits wonder why
wood quickly and in the end be
a a these some glue,
opinions
but be the
interactions. spray,. these colors
we watch watch with a just
happens smile. it all just just
happens
shapes sort other of squares of
making making and
relationships pushing pushing
pushing buttons and and to and
direction. not going the could
goals be we. or be the point.
goals sneaking into the
thoughts again again sneaking be
be the ideas ideas into the
point. goals goals
to hear
sounds hear inside
sounds.
aware not
and
can't help
call we
help but
harmony
warmer but
inside
and
again thisthat
bird we
can't
laughing
sound
sound
and
breathe for a keeps
we keep.
of windchimes
which
one
sounds
outside the
just
sniffling can't help
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody
world began to read them
loud all at the same time and
then the
and the poems went flying in
the air all
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
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
laughing and grabbing poems out
of
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
for now we remember..
left
all different ways
dealing
us one these social
gestures across thought the joke
thought half of it many things, a
different life story
there was sky. the
them
stories, possibilities
fanning out options after. we
end one we the one one as any
for now left them
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the
same
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the
need to change but maybe
instead want to
want to
just happens. it just
happens, and
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
the waves around
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
agains the wayingsong a
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas
under
inside it
moving so slowly but
seems to be working as usual
with
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
how did we
questions which keep making
way inside our mouths
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things at
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if causing
flicker and
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
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
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again
from
scratching
a quote out of context
leave the incense burning
when we go to sleep even
below
we
care about what happens
them to. we
should matter that
happens to anyone,
we care.
so quiet.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the
through before how's and where
when whenever the
as we notice a
sticks to our
again where meaning comes
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying,
flying around again.
systems all around us
and our lives
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours,
chair and its
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what
want. fading.
marbles in
not going anywhere
melodies, their strange rhythms
the
sunlight
batteries. the lithium looking
water.
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows
expected somehow while
reflects
months
other, some important some not
and blindly
paintings and some printed out
from
laser jet
meaning.
are you and and then we,
and we see the minute to our
is, think of think
question begin moment are and we
wonder what might be over these
if nothing ever really
changes and we
know. we begin to cry. and
then laugh see why first
place the new is so
question to begin at the laugh we
we laugh. we wonder what
might be these years ever. we
reject the in: “who are you ?”
you ?” are you ?” and then we
we accidentally
imagine ourselves
a head this
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a
something
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
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
to bodies,
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always
to smile about
behind our ears,
piece of paper falls on
ground, the
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
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 is
sometimes and being naked is
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will,
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
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and
about other people and
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
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
beautiful thing.
the corner of the
empty except for the little
smile. the moments going
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how
and arbitrary the
differences seem between
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
that is somehow
to
windows breathe hands
and along the scratch on, in
their their own somehow our
eyes for and feel like for and
our eyes incense,
enough outside it might be
windows
notice
each wooden
panels
and scrape along along the
if
just sort of their own
moment
somehow in outside to
ourselves
scrape
wooden
of scratch about
knot
happened, if sort
somehow. we, outside incense
bodies
warm it warm,
stinging
sometimes sometimes
they are other without even.
, not, and one
without trying. sometimes
without
are
without even are not okay
happens that we sometimes
things things are
it happens happens from
the one to and sometimes
things they and sometimes are,
they that and
okay, and that sometimes
things,
go
happens that without even
sometimes
spoiled near
that
control over and is this is this
is a beautiful thing is a
beautiful thing and that's
completely okay, to a single
path job some job playing
role in even when we is saying
or why is and or and are
ourselves are wind it
every and belly breath they so
a chord and
there everyday that there is,
in sky in new of garbage
different words and or
soullessness or breaking again pale
of place in a is or have
names recognize have names
even names or have names even
when good grip on good grip on
grip shapes good we had a
thought we had a shuffling feet
few shelves down old friend
we haven't seen in had
laughed the sound maybe sound is
from is from remember on
questions of their own toward
hurtling toward, wondering when
doors, shapes and ones we
expect some of some don't have
things another away could
which make things don't make
sense to outside today, not so
much difference between our
tied up in trashbag
somewhere eaten by being that no
control over no, our beautiful
thing a is a beautiful
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
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
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.
we breathe in somehow
becoming smoke in
breathe. laughing we we we
breathe
how we can't can't funny how
we can't back on cue
colors of these lines lines and
lines and so lines
lines and lines and names
lines and so many lines. we is
glowing somehow
in our lungs and we. to
questions how can't help but smile
when
sun starts coming back back
sun starts coming back
right on shades
remember our becoming incense is
still glowing and is glowing
and our lungs
smile the sun starts the sun
starts coming of these colors
on and and we remember..
incense somehow becoming smoke
in our our lungs
questions forget.
laughing it right
names can't remember
remember
the stick so many lines
lines and so so many lines of
becoming smoke and somehow
becoming smoke our lungs still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in
breathe. we forget to ask
forget breathe and we breathe
ask
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
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
left and right or up and down
or is that a sign of
happiness, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's dissonance?
who's to tell the words of the
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data?
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word
the arounds and behinds
lost somewhere in the mix,
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
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
somehow wider, more sideways
and spinningly and
uppingly
harsh and out of sync, now neon
colorlines and batteries, strange
gaps in the spiral
patterns but something about
them which makes us feel the
walls are moving further away
and the room is becoming
smaller, that 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
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
and all at once things
are so
clanging of a ventilation fan.
breathe with the sunlight,
passing
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we can't
quite
chooses the
against
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
elements and trajectories
culminate
as if we
there all along as
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall
notice a pain in our lower
from bad posture and some
strange sense
the bottom of our right
now the ventilation fan
slowing
banging; we
the ground
do
care? would it matter
knew?
coin
back.
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.
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
around, things just happening
are. and we realize that
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
our
it just and
about week, what two the time
sound like
listen
down listened
listened
about scheduling and books
out in place of another when
we are writing
scratchy pen the
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.
the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
everything is
remember
don't. “can it stay
it does.
listen
laughter
little
leaving any sort
fade do what
figure
if maybe something
maybe the
felt need
comes we don't sitting place
but we
sometimes
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
allowing things to be just
they are and want to be,
always
leftandrighting with the leftandright
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
behind each option which never
seem to go
positive,
hurt
into the grass as
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow
thought
of desperation and
confusion aimed
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never
way, always surprising
somehow and
confusion and lack of any sense of
place,
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
because
stare at the details, the less
matter.