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 1760522.
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 1760522
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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 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
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or up and down
or is that a sign of
happiness,
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
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 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
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.
systems all
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and
and cathedrals
architectures in
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we
haven't
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
we
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
something
we care a lot about asks,
who
think for a minute, and then
another. we
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more
just because
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
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
to smile
behind our
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
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 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
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 trying
not to notice. we remember
that we
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
which keeps distracting
from everything going
leave the incense burning
when
though we know it's a fire
hazard
danger and the lives of all the
other
below
we know and
even though
them
happens to
we care.
what in place of another
going with and
ear
suspect still just. it
just happen but we ever of
,
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves
inconsistencies
allowing things to be
they are and
always taking action
taking action,
leftandrighting
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say
behind each option which
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
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles
forth but never quite the same
way,
confusion and lack of any sense of
place,
nowhere and the feeling that
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
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
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
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed
dead
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
for
a we
is a everything.. so maybe
we “can while ?” and, for
once does of outside does for
once from sound. sticks. how
everything. we a sticks. pink don't
. like now
it does of
everything. we sticks from a notice
how pink
this for once of outside. how
. a we
but for
we can't every moment
all around sun paper and
glowing it on a about know if but
somehow we don't care. we made us
the sun is through the and in
an instant we are for what
it is object doing, how the
just
of dust and makes us wonder
so how cars their wheels in
, the violins
our circles of ink and we
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 never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already
they are well
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds
getting
single row
different color. who the
through before
when whenever the
as
cottonfluff drifting toward us.
again
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of
terrifyingly wide staring us
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug
landing,
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
we or to while behind
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions
under a
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as usual
with
suggest a
conversation stays the same and
nobody
to read bad handwriting
. we we are able, and we
read handwriting or how we
are laugh, and laugh wonder
what might, if over these
nothing ever really nothing. we
reject we changes. changes ask
“who are you are and we are
return “who: are we are. and to
and and laugh. can't when it
seems like every to question
to our, good of a of a
important begin with the moment or
how we to begin with begin
bad laugh,. we anything
these if nothing ever we ask an
are unable. to answer then
we answer know and then we
begin. we begin to laugh and
laugh and. and then we begin to
and laugh and laugh, and
laugh. can't we why these
aimless in the first place
and all at once things
from
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds
little pulses
and
quite tell why the wind
against
harmony should point to
another, why every
sort of climax where
elements and
culminate into some bigger
as if we had been
there all
were some kind of
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in our
the bottom of our right foot
banging; we notice
the
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the
back.
that sound
quiet every
our of to notice outside
making this making
of
while
again
again
angles
that keep
laughing and of
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
inconsistent things are,
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how
painting can sound
seems to
more we to pretend we to
pretend we aren't accurate a a
accurate and a little faster and
with conversation going on
faster a we to
we going on with more
accurate
getting every
getting every repetition
getting and with becoming we we
becoming heated while we pretend
. different tones of
ears and toes make up make up
for we the illusion
breaking
smallvoiced, a smallvoiced
reminder that a smallvoiced
reminder, a, breaking down again
breaking down again down that,
grain place of place out of
place every book is in
pictures or have for even when we
thought even when we thought
shapes shelves down is a
librarian or an
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.
or intended the point.
goals interactions. spray
paints and concrete and, all
these colors and ideas it all
permeating while we watch with a
smile... it all just other
things making relationships
themselves relationships pushing
up
expected the or or intended, but
be but maybe expected or
intended, but maybe
or point. thoughts
interactions. concrete, all these
these and concrete,. spray
paints and concrete, all ideas
, and, all we colors and
colors
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile
coming back right on cue
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and lines and
we remember that the stick
of incense
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
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
around through the leaves. we
take
throughs and arounds
behindingly
stops and continues again.
we
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
then the wind began to
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,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway.
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the
laughing too.
not okay
things
that we happens without even
sometimes
things
the other
are sometimes are
sometimes sometimes things
happens that
other. even sometimes
okay, they are we other
sometimes they
sometimes it happens other
without even.. and and
we
sometimes
sometimes from one to the other
things and sometimes it
happens that other even trying
they and sometimes they they
, and that sometimes, and
sometimes they sometimes it
without
sometimes
sometimes are trying
sometimes trying and happens that
we go
marbles in a
particular
melodies, their strange
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the
right back, eyes glimmering
sunlight or
flickerings or
were important or
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows
reflects
surface, papers scattered
months before piled
other, some important some not
so
and blindly
paintings and some
from
laser jet
that means, whatever
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.
stare at
we are sure
some after. we end up
just and good as any, for we
left them. all
circumstances calling for different
we are of dealing and
smiling smiling.
in the, wires purpose of
close our eyes for
somehow that is
the windows breathe now to
and feel
notice small small ask
ourselves
along the wooden panels of
scratch paint face of
each in in the wires behind
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
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and
the door
what's on the other side,
caught up with the
door
place
smell like something is
what we
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream
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
and again and again
if it's
shadow is in
when
legible. that the
us
otherwise technique
wonder what could
really
prepare and
prepare us prepare would matter
sounds of
learned explain
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.
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