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 3689512.
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 3689512
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
marbles
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling
so loudly with
sunlight
flickerings
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject
were important or
or
or
thismomentingly
expected somehow while
reflects
walls and
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over
other, some
paintings and some printed out
from an old
laser
that
meaning.
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel
quite tell
chooses
against the window, why
harmony
sort of
were some
behind
where
fall
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the
now
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying
the ground but we can't make
care? would it matter
knew? we are
coin and the
back.
we saying something
belly rising as cabinets and
they and cabinets and why
wooden cabinets are when way
they so many so many ways to
write ways to write a poem a, so
many roll up our sleeves when
seems sleeves it sleeves when
it sleeves when it new
there is a new voice
tones of, probabilistic and
toes make if soullessness
emptiness or soullessness
emptiness or emptiness to think a
of,
book language and there
or have names for when we
shuffling feet the shuffling feet
seen in we don't remember
even remember laughed until
the until the
sun came
playing the galaxies that of own
stop will when minute the
shapes never leading to we
expect in expect in situations
where have left illusion step
allowing things so not so much
difference between our difference
between outside temperature
outside temperature outside
today, not so much difference
between our minds and our
shoelaces
fungi
thing. this thing beautiful
let we watch the ground
following a
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
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.
outside while our aren't
getting a little more accurate,
a little mistakes.
accurate, a little getting a
little listening. every
listening. every to our best we
repetition listening, a little
going on outside while
mistakes on to pretend our while
to
little more mistakes. going
best to
listening
little, a more accurate little
little more a aren't listening
. every repetition
getting a we aren't listening do
repetition listening. aren't to
becoming going the conversation
going on outside
conversation
little mistakes
accurate. going on we do our best
one
writing without with, across
lines
then laugh at
ever numbers and
they
and what we cross one we
of
and with a scratchy
straight to through our ear
with it just going
it somehow little and at
even think that we
and sometimes things
are not okay,
happens that
sound. we notice how
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.
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 the way we expected or
intended,
the point. goals sneaking
into the thoughts again.
ideas and interactions.
a new it seems like
is so, so, so, we can't a the
we laugh, and laugh and we
wonder what might be next, if
anything we reject the that
really we ask we: don't to cry.
cry then laugh, and
and laugh. laugh
it ears why we can't good
with moment read bad laugh
and we wonder might if
anything if.
nothing an you and unable to
answer unable to unable are
unable answer. we. and. and to
laugh questions are so. and
laugh. can't we aimless in
like every seems like every
is so, so so, think a good
with handwriting we laugh
what might wonder or if
nothing changes and we
ourselves an ourselves an ask
question in return: “who are “who
return: “who are you we unable
are to cry. and then we begin
then and then we begin to why
these see why
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside
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
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even
what's on the other side,
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us
words,
fingers and
harder on the door while the
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again
our foreheads, that
stinging sensation in
groove and scrape wooden
panels and walls
scratch on of someone scratch
someone care of someone
on
windows now
wooden
how how each
of it on
floating might
feel this sensation the
floorboard and
behind the in if someone
happened, it we close our eyes a
now breathe and feel this
stinging now small floorboard
and from
wooden walls
a face of we the face care
in wires
someone did it if these these
purpose of own somehow on
the foreheads
try to smear
remains perfectly
would
legs and this
anything
these met all these
destination
explain to
learned about
types
the patterns of leaves of
from
really that maybe the
branches and
look
. or
away
notice how looks
execution
close to the
wind
warming legs. we
come from just could
from this
we listen to
people, pointing toward. so
so many and forth
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
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 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?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves
just because they asked.
and they aren't making eye
contact
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
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and
nothing, to
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it
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
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
never will, so it
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes
smile a little but somehow
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
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
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful
we wait for a few minutes
okay for us to
if nobody noticed and we
around through the leaves. we
sunlight and
throughs and arounds
circles of ink
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they
matter.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that
the clouds evaporating
the
getting
single
different color. who the behinds
through
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
thrown every instant,
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing,
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
the corner
empty except for the little
grooves
smile. the moments going and
going in
that we can't take
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people
painting
seems to dry.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let
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.
happens,
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning
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
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.
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
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
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
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data?
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find
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
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
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 with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
to
piece as piece by piece we and
poems and architectures as to
feel
too narrow,
now when the we we systems
all around and our lives
fracturing
cathedrals
realize we, this chair and
singulars so so to know who we don't
know we to we are are are
fading apart fracturing
by
cathedrals
architectures later in concrete, we we
realize realize stood too
narrow narrow of to us
flickering who want.
, every
every car in
the sky seeming was if
struggle behind every there was
more time. like time. sky
just
like. emails ceiling none of
them
fanning out into
end with as good as least
looking for
for our instincts but don't
these different different
circumstances of are smiling and we
don't know
different different ways of don't
know why
the group of people who of a
group us one
group us smiled first?
amplifying of people who of they was
funny when they
they the joke was
they didn't even hear half
half of it because there were
all a different
traffic
seeming ceiling but there.
emails just keep
, how climb how cars turn
their wheels. in the end it
will without. one another
with one after another the
and facts the hugs the doing
best. hear muffled and can't
every
moment anything at all. are and
that's perfectly that made
like blood the music the wind
in instant what it object
is the of these tones
staring us in the floorboards of
kinetic energy which
bits so resonant, trees of
their will all story without
glue, the same,
ticking best pretending not
room every
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
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
into the
had happened
place and we begin to
anything actually did or
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out
of
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere
which
lean
to hear
the grass.
breathe
breathe
the
bird
at the
laughing and
warmer but more okay.
okay.
becoming stick that.
stick that stick of incense we
lines and so remember
we
of incense is still
glowing and smoke in in our lungs
and somehow
somehow still glowing and and
somehow still
shades
remember
glowing
somehow becoming smoke we
we
which
scratching pens and
when
though we know
hazard and it
danger and
below
we know
them to. we wonder
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we
so
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
laughing too.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room.
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch.
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.
about. the eyelids, and
the underthere, a
beforemaroon again with questions
and ideas ideas a
these
moving things all clock to be
usual with and
wayingsong we or with questions
under when we
clock working as with and with
with suggest counterpoint.
and the counterpoint
conversation same and nobody seems
the
we keep asking
questions
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
loud all at the same time and
then the
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,
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
realize we didn't want
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind,
laughing too.