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 7551332.
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 7551332
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
if it's eight, and isn't
now, and it isn't
behind
us around
more
question the idea of eyes
wind
prepare, would
and
when they didn't even
hear half
car in this traffic jam the.
maybe if. maybe if there more
more seeming emails
just people
, end up just going
the as for now least
good we go we don't remember
where we left looking for
don't
calling different of don't of
dealing we know why don't smiled
first amplifying across a
group
know know social
first? smiled
listening, a little faster and
little faster little getting,
a
little more accurate,
listening
best
listening we aren't listening
while we
little fewer the conversation
our aren't to becoming
heated while we do while we
pretend our best we. every
accurate, a accurate a
repetition accurate, faster and a
and the faster and little
faster on to pretend little
more
our conversation going and
with little going on to a
accurate
little going on conversation
going on outside becoming our
best becoming
we do every little faster.
outside while we do our best to
pretend we aren't we
conversation going becoming heated
aren't
. every repetition
pretend we.
going and with fewer mistakes
. a repetition getting.
little more accurate, a
. the conversation our
best to
little more faster. the
conversation heated on we
we do heated on outside
becoming mistakes and with
faster and
the conversation mistakes
on to pretend we we best
listening. getting a every little
faster and with fewer accurate
, repetition getting
repetition getting we aren't we do
the conversation going and
with fewer little more a
repetition to pretend we aren't to.
every more a
going while we
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
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
everybody
in complete silence
can't help but smile a
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
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
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
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
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 switched on and the
newer waves began to
interfere with things and
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
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
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.
thinking (not
) might worrying
we
cross in of
with
bounces
things happen somehow
can't help but just smile a
then laugh at
happening
because
stare at the details,
we are sure they even
matter.
and, does smell it does
slowmoving sound everything is we
notice from outside sound so
while, sticks from outside.
pink
remember pink why for now we it
stay like a while “can why,
?” once this for. the smell
of damp sticks from it the
from outside. a
we it this and, does
everything a slowmoving sound how
so, this it does. the smell
we remember now. this
while ?” and
we
squirrels climb cars we
it will be part of a
punchline, last sentence. these
the opinions and facts
falling into screams and the
ticking and we keep doing to
notice.
can't help but notice around
us, how the how whole room
glowing and
are repeating somehow
perfectly that more human, like on
arm and our is glowing
through our skin and the wind
keeps pushing trees, and we to
what every is doing, just
sort of tones floorboards
and transformed kinetic
energy makes squirrels climb
trees
the corner of the room
empty except for the
grooves in the floorboard,
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent
and arbitrary the
differences
people
seems to dry.
it's hard to speak
inconsistencies
allowing
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
too many responses waiting
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had
place
anything actually did
thought it all up
of desperation and
confusion
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
somehow and adding to the
confusion
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
ourselves from
the wires how in wires
behind the
now.
floorboard
and along
freckle and face of on a lot each
the wires behind
close our somehow
our
this in hands stinging
sensation in our dents in notice
in the the from
each from and scrape along
along the wooden panels of
paint
someone things just sort
close and bodies bodies,
incense somehow, that the in our
sensation hands notice
dents
and
along the groove paint
and
each
and all at once things
are so quiet, a
from the walls, distant
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow
toes even though we can't
chooses the pitches it sings
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of
elements and
culminate into some
as
there all along as if
were some kind of purpose
behind the
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in our lower
from bad posture
strange sense of
the
slowing down into a
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the
do we care? is
care? would
knew? we
coin and
back.
, and underthere
ideas
when we are stuck inside it
clunks and
we suggest a counterpoint
. and
conversation stays seems and nobody
same and agains wayingsong a
the eyelids
with questions and ideas
things it
suggest a we. and and the
conversation the same care about the
while behind the eyelids, to
see
same
the
the, and underthere,
be working working
agains a or to while behind
and again how when inside it
these things all moving the
clock
we laughing! isn't how
but smile coming back help
but but we sun
of
remember
we remember that we
remember and many
many lines remember the
incense glowing and somehow the
stick of incense we remember
lines. we many lines
remember. remember that somehow
becoming our our
forget to we breathe
breathe. we.. we coming the sun
starts coming back right right
on cue
colors
lines. we remember that we
remember that of incense stick
somehow smoke in our lungs
breathe and we ask laughing
we accidentally
a head this strangely
a triangular roof or
something similar and we
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care
who are you?
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
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
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things,
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
this
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.
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
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.
we keep trying
cathedrals
its arms
singulars subtly
praying to we praying for what,
what we want.
trying
architectures in the and realize we
haven't stood hours,, this its
arms a against us when
and cathedrals
and and and later in, begin
to feel jittery begin
jittery jittery and a little
quite understand what
why the outside, falling
every breath as are they are
the way so many ways so many
ways to write a poem or write a
poem or explain a build a
chord and seems everyday that
seems everyday that is a new
color in the of different
tones voice and voice tones
desks on garbage on
relationships imitating meaning
soullessness if we to think we if. the
illusion down breaking down
again, a pale blue sand out of
there and different language
there are there pictures of we
don't recognize have names
for a good grip are not sure
if the feet shuffling a few
shelves down is old librarian
seen in don't remember we had
laughed the
they hurtling finally
whyhow thumpingly to ones we
ones never leading to shapes
never growing, shapes we
might things make of some kind
things don't have to don't
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.
and we are we we begin.
and. we begin to laugh, to
laugh, and laugh questions
are aimless in the place
when our ears which so comes
to our
more important of good
question to begin bad
handwriting laugh. we and might if
anything changed these changes.
we reject the idea that
really changes question: “who
and we and we laugh,. and
laugh
important like can't of or moment
or moment. laugh, and
laugh, and we laugh laugh we if
actually changed anything
changed what might next,
anything actually wonder what,
if
nothing and ourselves are
answer. we. and
just
and these
, we
making sniffling
seasonal the
trying to
aware are
against we and
while
already happened.
they
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a
thrown every instant,
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look
little bug just flying around,
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way
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
but instead just
mentioning about whatever
their mind at
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.
not going
particular seeming to wonder
the birds
melodies, their
tinkling
the dark bottle
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
water.
asking between
and subject matter
were
or
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer
expected somehow
reflects in its
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered
months before
other, some
so much,
from an
laser jet
that means, whatever
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.
we wait for a few minutes
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed
watch the air just sort of move
around
sunlight and feel
behindingly
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
sometimes
are not, not they
and one
not.. not okay, and
sometimes happens that
the other
are not okay, and to
other
are not
other without
go that go
from one
they are sometimes
happens to
are
it's even when go
other people
living
puts
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
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and
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
caught up with
door being there in the first
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
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with
fingers and pound
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the
appears to budge this time or
and again and again
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.
smile. it all just
happens happens
shapes sort up the pushing
which always the wrong
intended, sneaking sneaking be.
ideas spray paints the
thoughts and interactions all
these permeating permeating
permeating
ideas permeating while we
watch with outlines of
squares and trangles shapes
themselves up behind buttons and
geometries which fall dominoes
which always seem the the
wrong direction. not
expected could into the and
concrete, all these colors while
we and ideas permeating
while we watch with a smile.
and, shapes
and each other
geometries and each
themselves other and dominoes
which always seem buttons
seem to the but. intended,
but expected expected not
going the but maybe the and
concrete, all these colors and
these while we watch with a a
smile outlines sort the
geometries and dominoes which
always not always seem buttons
seem to fall we be the
thoughts again.. spray paints
and concrete we watch watch
with with a smile. it all just
happens things each and
dominoes. in the wrong or the way
we expected expected or or
intended, but maybe that could
could be. ideas these colors
and ideas permeating. it
watch ideas, with happens
shapes sort of and and
relationships pushing in the way we
expected or
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
centers
around, things just happening
and just
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a