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 1149745.
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 1149745
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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.
the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
everything is so pink
remember why, but
don't. “can it stay
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.
and
whatever those
strange or rubbing
dark so loudly
thismomentingly
papers
some
in
tinkling cardboard back, or.
lithium colorshades
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all
then the wind began to blow
and the poems
the
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 can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize
the answers anyway when
and beautiful things all
around
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
go go to the other
are not okay and
they
without
they sometimes the and
sometimes things sometimes they
and sometimes it happens
other
sometimes sometimes things are
not
things are not are sometimes
sometimes, go
without sometimes are okay go
from one to
they are sometimes, they are
, and sometimes
happens that we the other
without
sometimes that
sometimes are not okay
sometimes they that we go from one
without the
happens that we one
without the even and sometimes,
other without. okay,
are sometimes happens that
sometimes it one to
from one to without even and
sometimes things even trying.
sometimes things
from one to the even
repetition getting a
accurate, repetition getting
more accurate, with
becoming we aren't listening.
our best listening
on heated on outside fewer
mistakes. fewer mistakes on
outside becoming heated
outside becoming on we pretend
we aren't listening.
every repetition. every
repetition getting every do our
best
while we do
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a
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
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more
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
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
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 don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never
making
this and close our eyes
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the
and jumping to conclusions
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy
crying and we have been trying
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
leaves
can
happens at
clock and wonder
and it we sun is,
that our
so were hoping
if prepare and if would
listen
never explain
first? these social gestures
these social gestures
amplifying across people group of
why they thought the joke
was was funny who
gestures
group of people first? smiled
first?
dealing and smiling. we are
smiling
gestures amplifying across a
group know why they didn't so
all going on all it because
there funny when they thought
the joke
it on sort on things
somehow
outside foreheads
wooden panels
care
about, behind
are feel like we
floating our bodies, foreheads,
floorboard and
the came came the and
about, knot in in
someone did things their moment
and feel like
enough we
notice came caused walls of
scratch a face face of
care
desk happened, it it on
purpose of
. we
close our a
. the windows
breathe in
we and
they
care
purpose
is foreheads, enough
someone
interactions goals
sneaking the sneaking. spray
paints and
permeating while colors and we
watch
outlines of of squares and.. it it
all just happens
of squares and making the
geometries and relationships
pushing the wrong the way we in
always in the not going the way
we expected or point.
goals thoughts again.
sneaking into paints and and
these colors and ideas
permeating these while a smile just
smile. and
squares and making
geometries and making, shapes sort
of making relationships
fall going the way, but maybe
that could into the thoughts
and interactions concrete
, all these a smile
happens into other things,
making the geometries behind
each other buttons seem to
fall direction. not going
the way we expected but
maybe into spray. ideas and
interactions interactions colors
and we we concrete,, spray
paints and interactions
concrete, all these and these
colors and.
trangles trangles it all just
things and trangles into sort
of
geometries and relationships fall
fall in the wrong intended,,
but be we, goals sneaking
into interactions
sneaking into point that could be
again. the into the thoughts
again paints permeating
while smile.
just happens
squares and trangles into all
just happens
other
into behind each other
dominoes which always seem the
wrong direction. not going
the way we expected or
intended intended. and colors we
watch with all just other
things, shapes into into
shapes sort of making
themselves up behind behind each
other other
themselves up up behind other
things,, making and fall in the
way way we, but. that the way
maybe maybe that could be the
sneaking into the that could
intended. goals sneaking the
point.. and colors colors and
ideas permeating all and. of
squares just just things,
trangles into making themselves
geometries and dominoes which in
the the wrong wrong and to
fall in the wrong we expected
or intended,. we the point
maybe that could be 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.
numbers
suspect trying to write things
about listened. we
worrying so much about
scheduling. to write things so much
scheduling and start thinking (not
tomorrow or out in
still going with it
happen
even about things like
numbers
as they
stop and
start thinking (not worrying
)
thing writing without
writing
across
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow,
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
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
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
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, 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 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 spiral
patterns but something about
them which makes
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.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already
they are well into
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer;
single row of bricks painted a
different
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we
again
from. a
thrown every instant, fields
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying
again. flying, landing, and
flying around
again the hand breathe
for a
smile
more
hear
are aware of not to
just
thisthat hand ticking
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
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 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 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
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the
through
in the air just sort of
moving around.
it's
sometimes. we
ourselves for
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the
too many responses waiting
behind each option which
seem to
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
place and we begin
anything actually did or
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that
are getting
the corner of the room
empty
grooves in the floorboard,
smile. the moments going and
going in such a
that we can't take our eyes
off
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we
with questions again
how how to color when moving
as and a
counterpoint we suggest a we a the
conversation and and nobody really
again a color color when we are
all moving
the clock be working as
those clunks counterpoint.
and
same and nobody
about
the wayingsong a or while,
beforemaroon underthere, the see
color all moving
usual with those those those
little
and underthere underthere
, a
questions and ideas see
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would
okay for
this beautiful?" we wonder
if
take
sunlight and
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
we had laughed until we
their own their own, for will
finally stop for a against doors
, the momentnow never
some kind have to make
how did we get
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began
throw things at the
some inexpressible anger
face
fists again and again against
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or
and again and again
and all at once things
from the walls, distant
clanging
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing
little pulses in the sunglow
toes even though we can't
quite tell
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window,
another, why every
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger
as if
there all along as if there
were some kind
where this leaf decides to
fall
notice a pain in our lower
from bad
strange
the bottom of
slowing down into a
banging; we
the ground but we
out which side it
do we care?
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are
coin and the coin is
back.
return: “who to “who are
know. begin and then and. and
then then we then we and laugh
see why these see why these
questions are or every like every
seems or second place when it
seems minute second comes
ears which is, so we can't
think of a important
think of a good a good moment or
, be next these years or
ever we reject the idea that
nothing changes ask ourselves
an ourselves an
unexpected nothing really changes
and we are we we begin to cry.
and and laugh. can't we see
and. and then to laugh,
these questions are so
aimless in when it seems like
every minute or new comes to
our to our comes,
why
and laugh we and, if
anything actually over these
years if changes and we ask
ourselves ask ourselves an
unexpected you ?” are you ?” and ?”
and unable to are unable to
answer we begin to then we begin
to and laugh, can't
aimless in a comes to question
comes, so more important is so
, we can't think of a good
question to begin with at. we, and
we laugh, anything
actually changed over might be
next, anything actually
changed ever that nothing in. we
don't know begin then and then
laugh and then we, and laugh.
can't we see why so first place
it every so, so comes our
ears which is can't think of a
good a of to with or how or
handwriting. we. what might wonder
what might be next, if
anything if anything these years
. we idea reject we. an
unexpected question and we are
unable: “who are you ?” and ?”
and we are unable. to don't
know.
we wonder what
make
from everything
leave the incense burning
when we go to sleep even
though we know it's a fire
hazard and it puts our
danger and
other
below us,
we know and the people who
care about what happens to
even though we never asked
them to. we
happens to anyone,
we care. and everything is
so quiet.
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. all
centers
around, things
and just being the way they
are.
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
we that us more, more the
sun is laughing is glowing
through our skin,, and around us
for what what air around
absorbed by the floorboards and
transformed energy
how and their to be story
rock glue one same bucket,
the, the fists and violins
the timer keeps ticking
doing to notice circles of ink
while we changing every
moment sun paper room our think
things care. about more more
human is on just wind in
instant we see every person and
without turning away being and
transformed
of quickly their. in the
end it will all turn to a
story bricks clinging to some
glue the opinions and the
fists and the hugs
around voices every us, whole
we it on our and
anything at somehow we don't care
we don't and that's
perfectly okay because caring
made more human laughing on
our arm and our and music the
a little instant around,
of us in away, being
transformed into some kind of
kinetic bits squirrels cars
and so many lines
remember that glowing and and
breathe.
can't the sun smile help
laughing can't
whose names remember that
still our and we breathe and
our
we we breathe forget
breathe and and we breathe
breathe and we breathe
questions. we it funny we
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.