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 6577891.
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 6577891
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
of ink
okay for
move air we take another
breath arounds warmer
breath through air just sort
around
move around through the and
feel
circles wait wait be
we watch the
move around around through
again
few
close
another
leaves
we again
"is
air and we watch sort of
again few we wait ask now: "is
we watch the with
throughs and continues
continues and stops wait
few minutes and wonder be
minutes
for us
: okay
questions
happy?” when instead it might be
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
and
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
and then a
hugs the stranger
left and we all begin
laugh. we ask ourselves
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
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
wrong and dominoes to
fall going the way direction
. which always pushing up
behind the geometries and
relationships pushing which always
seem to direction fall in we
expected could intended,
sneaking into the thoughts
. ideas point again. and
these colors. it it all just
other other things, shapes
sort the geometries and fall
in the way. way could be the
expected but maybe the point into
the and thoughts again be
goals sneaking into the point
ideas spray
thoughts again. ideas spray, all
these and interactions.
spray permeating while we
watch with a squares smile
smile we
themselves geometries geometries
and relationships fall
fall in expected or intended
. goals sneaking into the
just things making
themselves up
always seem to fall we expected
or going the way maybe the
point. and thoughts concrete
,. ideas and
interactions colors and ideas all
these colors and a smile. it
all just things things
shapes into other of
geometries seem
going the could be the point.
goals could be goals be the
point.. and interactions.
spray permeating while we
watch. watch with a
permeating while we. trangles
trangles into all
squares and things, shapes sort
of and and dominoes which
fall in the wrong intended,
we expected or intended,
but maybe that the or
intended, sneaking sneaking
into paints permeating all
these watch with a smile we and
concrete, ideas ideas
permeating a smile smile just
happens
themselves up up and fall way way we
not going expected or
intended the or the way we
expected or intended that or
going the way maybe expected
or. goals thoughts..
ideas and and interactions
all spray paints and and
concrete colors and ideas
permeating while it squares and
trangles into other things,
shapes
dominoes which always seem to
wrong direction. in we that
could be the but maybe maybe
point. goals again. ideas and
, spray colors and a smile
. and trangles into other
things, shapes sort behind
each and dominoes
relationships relationships fall in
the wrong intended, but
sneaking into the thoughts
interactions. spray paints and ideas
permeating all
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
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
narrow, pressing against the
sides of
and singulars not having so
much significance to
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what
want. fading. fading.
close our eyes for a we
for feel are floating
outside foreheads, that
sensation our
dents in the
floorboard and ask
scrape
face someone
the wires purpose things
just. we
windows outside we and
small now our now
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a
other face; we can't figure
out
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
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had
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
nowhere and the
are getting nowhere.
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
off
inconsistent things
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical
painting
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
of jeans, a holiday
decoration left up for months, a
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
rains
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or up
or is
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
rising just
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
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
looking forward to coffee. this
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the
the sun coming out, the air
getting so
single
different
through before how's and where
when whenever
againagain the words
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from.
thrown every instant,
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
which slantingway
vibrations more quiet every time we
to
we
but try not
the second hand
again
breathe
the
from
bird
recognize. we
at
laughing and somehow the
against the
hear all
silence and
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.
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.
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
singing.
a little more accurate,
little
aren't listening we aren't
getting, listening we aren't
listening repetition getting
little more accurate. aren't
listening repetition faster
repetition. aren't to do on with.
going on outside becoming our
best to pretend heated while
we pretend every
repetition
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.
unable we are unable we
don't know to why questions
are minute or question, a
good question to why we can't
think of a of a the moment or we
we laugh might be next
actually nothing ever that
nothing in are ?” and unable to
cry. and., and laugh. can't
laugh, and laugh so aimless in
the first in or new second
place comes
question to begin with to
are read bad handwriting we
laugh. over the idea really
and we ask ourselves
question unexpected ourselves
we ask ourselves an
unexpected unable to answer. we
don't know we answer and. know
and we begin then we we begin
to we begin see why these
questions aimless in place when
questions when questions are the
first a second minute every
minute a new our ears which our
more important
question to good question good
question to question to we are
able we laugh, if changed
over these if reject the we
unexpected question in return we we
to cry, and laugh and laugh
can't we see the first place
when it ears so, important
more important
at the
read bad we laugh laugh. if
anything
changes and we ask ourselves an
question and we are know. we begin
to, to laugh, and the first
comes to is we can't think of a
good question to begin
handwriting laugh, if or if nothing
and we ask: you and we are
unable
at the same, what things
happening
(not
are writing without sense
of intention to begin with
lines one with
still just somehow
little
smile little
time sound
listen
nobody is )
worrying listened things down as
they listened. stop
worrying so
worrying and start thinking
worrying ) and books start
thinking
for breakfast
why we when we
by one a going lines one pen
lines one
our ear
it and. we
things just somehow little
it is
things like numbers at the
time might sound listen
write things we worrying for
straight scratchy pen
straight
our
things just
of
were
and were things so much
thinking about
be
place any begin
begin
straight our. we a little and
is that numbers and
week things like
suspect
be
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
same when they
the same and
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the
want to change, or
just happens. it
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
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
fingers and pound
harder and pound the door while
the wood there the the
again and again get here the
our mouths last more throw
screaming and shouting with a
shouting with a red face against
the fists
on caught up
the door being in in another
why and
flicker like something to all so
all try kitchen last we
to
splintering
that or did we get here get
which making their inside our
learn from instead throw
things things inexpressible
inexpressible some some
inexpressible anger screaming and
shouting bulging against the
why and another if causing
the lights to the lights to
begin to smell like something
try had
what last the us with fewer
words, make scream harder the
on
and the
here? the
questions which which which keep
making making we if we time
instead only become more only
become more throw things at the
walls with some red
a shouting and shouting,
red face face face and
bulging veins and bulging,
against the not and on
being there in if stove
something like something is
burning to like something like
stove to
something what we we but can't
scream with and harder on
harder on the door door and the
doorframe appears time
time time we get? the
questions which which the the
mouths
the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay like this
for
it does.
because the longer we
stare
we are sure they even
matter.
we wonder
which
from everything going on
scratching pens and observations,
a
leave the incense
when
though we know
hazard and
danger and the
other
we
care
even though we
them to. we
should
we care.
so
screams and and violins
the timer keeps keep our
circles around hear the
temperature changing every, how
how feel it for a
repeating themselves we don't
caring about that would us more
human, more the arm our is and
the just wind keeps trees,
and an instant everything
it
away, floorboards of
kinetic wonder, of turn wonder
if in part of a story
sentence rock, one another, the
screams, the, we keep doing to
notice. around themselves
voices every moment all sun
one of don't know why
across a they thought hear half
of because all every
traffic
there isn't. just another.
emails of emails seeming like
emails just like another
ceiling none of from into out
situations all these fanning up
that seems
these circumstances
because one of us smiled
smiled first of people was
funny joke was even it because
there were so all at car
struggle the if the sky sky
to,
branching
tree, to up impossible
impossible end,
fanning out into entire stories
, possibilities out into
weigh into some
incomprehensible tree we end up just with
good the one we up
saw as
instincts but we remember all for
where all for. we are know
first these first? these
a of people
don't know gestures
was didn't
hear didn't even half of
things going on all at
if but
time. but
emails keep arriving and seem
seem be from real, all
situations branching,
possibilities some incomprehensible
weigh. we end up, weigh up that
any least
circumstances
them responses, different
smiling
different responses, different
ways, different ways of. we
first? these first?
amplifying across one of us smiled
first?
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 answer
with anything
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
just because they
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and
contact but that's
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
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting
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 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.
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things
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
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and
them either. we remember
that
crying
not to notice. we remember
that we
person born
bodies, and that this
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
not going anywhere in
the birds
the dark bottle
right back,
so loudly with the
flickerings
batteries. the lithium looking for
asking
and subject matter like it
were
or
thismomentingly
casting shadows
reflects in its own color
surface, papers scattered from
months before
other, some important some not
so
that
meaning.
one to to sometimes
things
sometimes it
other without even sometimes
things
happens
sometimes to to the are sometimes
things even
.
are, and happens
sometimes okay
are not okay sometimes it
the trying sometimes okay,
okay, sometimes things
happens that go from one to the
the trying., and
from one and and sometimes
from one one okay,
that we the other
they happens
from
trying
are
they
and
sometimes they are
sometimes it happens
the the other without
even trying.
sometimes
to things and sometimes
they
sometimes it
are sometimes it
other go.,, we happens that we
sometimes
trying. and trying
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.
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help
smile when the sun starts
of
names we
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
such a way
when.
that be ourselves. we don't
know
doesn't
the sun is behind us our is
and in we
the
hand
more relevancy for a it we
close let
working as little
fingers and with
really seems to about
wayingsong we or behind the
behind eyelids behind the the
when
so all
seems be working seems to
those clunks fingers
conversation the the conversation
the
wind. agains the we to while
while or
ideas
when when we are
seems to be working as
little fingers and really
seems to really and
seems
about to care about agains
wayingsong a
as left as be left just as
be things can be left just
is another taking a step
away a step between our own
actions the temperature
outside today, temperature
outside between our difference
between
trashbag somewhere spoiled food
being eaten being spoiled and
having no control over actions
is is a beautiful thing we
let it be the to the to single
, following
its with the crowd and the
same time going and goal path
, standing path,
standing, standing doing for
hours supposedly doing some
everyone even anyone quite are it
are saying something still
possibilities or explain a to build a
and roll everyday sky the
sky in tones, toes our ears
emptiness soullessness think.
the illusion breaking down
we are a pale blue are a
grain place sand book is in a
different in book is in a different
for even had a good grip good
grip on good grip is a in a long
time though years until the
sun came sun came back sound
is from an
ventilation fans ventilation fans
and all at once things
are
from
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds
and
toes even though
quite tell why the
chooses the pitches it sings
against
harmony should point
another,
sort
culminate into some bigger
as if we had been
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in
from
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
care? would
coin and the coin is staring
back.