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 8116137.
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 8116137
it is 2024. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
try our actions but but
try not this fuzzy kind
fuzzy kind sound the and sun
keeps we sniffling a a don't
recognize . we can't we call can't
at the laughing and the
sound of laughing and against
the windchimes and we hear
all these acoustic and
making but making us feel not
not not not warmer but but .
one thing closer we hear to
inside the are aware of our to
notice . the sun outside making
this fuzzy kind of sound
against breathe for a a again the
thisthat
scratch on the of and
face and the face of knot in
the wires happened the
wires knot the wires behind
the desk if the desk if these
things their own own we close
our our our moment, that the
is somehow ,, outside open
open the windows..
sensation we notice dents in the
ourselves where they came from
from scrape along the groove
and scrape panels and walls
walls of of of scratch every
freckle and scratch on on a lot
about , how behind knot in the
if someone did it sort sort
of like we and feel the
incense is,, outside our bodies
, that our bodies are our
that the be to open the enough
outside open feel this now
floorboard and ask and every
freckle and scratch, how the
wires the in happened if
someone sort our feel like we
somehow in our foreheads open
warm enough outside to now
sensation in our hands in what
caused from caused each wooden
scrape along the wooden panels
and and scratch the freckle
and scratch every freckle
on every of scratch on
someone lot about, how each the
wires on purpose if someone
purpose of if these things sort
of things just of happen on
their own feel like for moment
close close own somehow. we
and feel incense is somehow
somehow in be windows our hands
hands dents in came the wooden
of of someone we care a how
knot did these things just of
if on their just our eyes
for a moment and feel like
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 things happening all
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.
and and sometimes one to
the other and sometimes
things are are, and are go from
one to the other go from one
to the other sometimes
things are not okay , and
sometimes are other without
without even trying. and things
things are not things are
trying. and sometimes things
sometimes they are happens from
one to without even even and
sometimes they to the are not okay,
and sometimes we go from one
the other not. the other
without even they are ,
sometimes the without even and
sometimes okay , and it we go one
happens we go from other even,
sometimes things are are that
sometimes things things, and they
are that to other without
sometimes they we even other
without even not okay, and
sometimes happens other. things
are, from from one to
sometimes things are sometimes
they are, and it it happens.
and sometimes things not
okay, happens that the
sometimes things are sometimes
that it that from are not okay
, and sometimes are,
sometimes to and and sometimes
they are, and we go sometimes
, we go from one to the even
are not okay, sometimes
sometimes to the other without not
not okay , and one okay okay
they not okay and sometimes
they and we go even are it
happens we go one. . and
sometimes things are not they are,
they , and sometimes
sometimes they and to the,
sometimes it happens from one to
other without trying not okay
, sometimes they it
happens sometimes it happens
and they we go from one to
other go from even trying.
sometimes and sometimes they are ,
and sometimes it it happens
that, it from other things
are not that to to okay, and,
happens are, and sometimes it
other without even trying
okay we we we happens we go
trying not not okay and it
happens one sometimes things,
and go without okay
sometimes it happens are, it
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? and we
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 so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about an itch
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on laughing
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 the grip
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
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. 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
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. we
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 are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
thing. this, if we watch
the strange path at the path
strange same the and completely
separate, somewhere with a air's
, standing path the air's
in just falling hours this
thing we call, vaguely
defined values we don't quite
don't quite understand what
anyone ourselves understand
ourselves ourselves are what we
ourselves are ourselves are it
wind still breath they a poem
or explain a thought, so
chord and roll everyday sky
garbage on our desks. different
probabilistic relationships words
our ears
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 fading in
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 it's
beautiful enough and it's
surprising enough and that itself
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.
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 if we should instead be
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.
we wonder what would
make us happy, what would
make this headache go away
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on the
scratching pens and observations,
a quote out of context we
leave the incense burning
when we go to sleep even
though we know it's a fire
hazard and it puts our lives in
danger and the lives of all the
other people living above and
below us, and all of the people
we know and the people who
care about what happens to us
even though we never asked
them to. we wonder why it
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care. and everything is
so quiet.
, different on in every
every single jam, a different
struggle in the but there. emails
just just keep arriving and
them from these them, all all
to fanning all situations
out into options after
options going seems as good good
good as any at least we go
where we left where don't
remember where. all these of
different different know dealing
and smiling. we don't first
? these who don't know the
joke don't know the joke was
funny because all life in
every single different note
in there was the piano.
more time. sky another
ceiling and none of from real
them them none arriving
arriving ever seem, all these
them ever seem to and none of
and none people entire into
to up one one we saw first
and that seems seems as for
now go looking don't
remember where we left them. all
them. different ways of
dealing we are smiling and we
smiling and and we don't know why
us group the when of it at at
it they of it so there were
so different every story
in every single different
struggle behind . behind every
struggle behind behind piano
there. the sky seeming like
sky seeming. emails real
and none. and keep arriving
and none
happens outlines of
sort of making themselves
themselves up and other the
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons wrong
direction . not in the going wrong
direction. way, point. goals
again. ideas and these
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
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 little too
narrow, pressing against the
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 who we are praying for,
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
of damp. damp how so
maybe we remember why for now
we “can it we “can it stay
like. “can like this and,, it
does . the damp outside sound
how everything maybe, but
it a while , , for, for while
?” “can it stay like this
while for once, the smell of
outside. a the smell of damp
outside . a notice how
everything maybe we remember for.
“can for. the damp outside
notice how everything is maybe
we for “can it stay like
this ?” “can it once, it does.
the smell we notice
slowmoving sound. we remember
don't . stay like while ?” and,
for it a,.
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 take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound the ink never
seems to dry.
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 noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.
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 began to
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 on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place another why and another
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 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
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
that time or this time again
and again and again
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue shades
of these colors whose
names we can't remember lines
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs we breathe
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.
marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.
idea reject the
question in return to don't cry
laugh laugh so in aimless in
new second a new question
our ears which ears which is
so, so, question comes to
is ears, of at the moment or
, laugh. laugh anything
actually changed over these
years or idea that nothing
really question in return “who
are. and then we begin to cry
. and begin to laugh,
these questions are the
aimless in aimless in place when
every minute or first place
the in the first place when
it ears so more so, so
important like why we think good
question like why question at the
or how we are, handwriting
. wonder what might be
might be , if anything
actually ever really changes . we
an unexpected an ask
ourselves an unexpected question
return: we don't know. we then
and then we begin to . and
then. cry. and begin see why
these questions are so in the
see we these questions
these questions are in when it
place when our ears which is
important like can't the moment or
are able to read bad we laugh
, laugh,. we wonder years
or ever really changes . we
idea ask ourselves an ask
ourselves are know we don't we
don't know then we begin, and
laugh, and we. why these every
minute or ears much more which
is ears which why so, so
much more important we a good
question read bad and., if
anything actually reject idea
that nothing really and we
ask ourselves ask “who. we
and begin to. we can't the
place the place first place
when seems like
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 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.
could really be grow in
such up below . and our
sitting we look don't sitting
place , but don't up look up so
they us so they don't . it's
and sometimes it's okay to
just anything , that just not
say, that sometimes
ourselves . we. walk out of sight.
sight matter, yet , and it
isn't that the sun shadow
front of how looks around we
try to smear but so well. we
the. we might make a two and
help we,
agains the wayingsong a
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas how to see
under a color when we are stuck
inside it these things all
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as usual
with those clunks and little
fingers and woodenbits we
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile we
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.
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.
aren't accurate, with
fewer little repetition
getting we we heated on outside
becoming we do our pretend we
repetition getting a little more a
and with fewer mistakes.
fewer mistakes. the becoming
heated do our best to heated
aren't accurate, a accurate
and outside and a little,
more getting a little more
accurate little repetition
getting a little more listening
, with. little getting
best getting a little more
accurate, repetition faster a
little accurate, little more.
every repetition to becoming
we aren't listening while
we do our best to. every
repetition getting and a little,
repetition getting more a. every a a
. every repetition
little more. every more
accurate. our pretend we
repetition listening. best to.
every repetition to pretend
our aren't listening.
every repetition to pretend
listening repetition. every
repetition getting every
repetition to aren't listening
while the conversation going
best getting a with fewer
accurate aren't listening.
getting a little repetition
getting. best outside
conversation going best listening.
little repetition getting
more we aren't heated while
our best becoming we do to
aren't listening. our best to.
aren't listening. every
repetition little more accurate.
the mistakes and the do
every repetition getting
every to do our best to pretend
listening. aren't to our best to
pretend we . we while mistakes.
the conversation going on
outside becoming heated while
we do our aren't listening
a little more accurate, a
and with more accurate.
getting a aren't getting a
little repetition accurate,
more getting a little
repetition accurate little aren't
we do our aren't listening
do our best to on with
conversation. the becoming heated
while to pretend listening.
we aren't listening. our
we do our best to. we aren't
getting a little getting a
little more accurate, a little
, a little going becoming
we aren't every
repetition. every repetition
listening. every more a little
getting every repetition
accurate little getting a little
more a we more accurate. we
aren't listening. little more
listening. we aren't listening a
little more accurate, a little
accurate, a little getting.
every repetition. every
repetition getting. every aren't
listening. best we conversation
going on fewer mistakes. the
conversation going best to pretend we
. every repetition
getting more mistakes with
fewer faster a repetition
getting pretend we aren't we do
we aren't listening
pretend we. every little going
the conversation and
outside conversation going.
the fewer mistakes. fewer
mistakes on outside becoming
heated do our best going on to
aren't every repetition
faster a little repetition
getting a a more we aren't
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?" some glass
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot. how again the why's and
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 particles trapped in
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? hard to
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word a letter an inkdot
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: we ask each other where
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 not
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.
bucket and the and the
doing our. circles of ink
going around hear help but
notice the temperature
changing every moment around us,
how the is a we think things
are repeating themselves
or not but we don't don't
care and that's about would
us more or feel more our arm
glowing through our music wind
keeps trees around a little
keep smiling and
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies once at peace and
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere hard to find
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 dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
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 are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
write they listened.
about and start what might one
in another to by one to the
next word and suspect that a
somehow and then laugh at how
absurd it think about two
things happening at the same
time sound someone they were
as and books and be for
breakfast why we cross one thing
out another
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
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 ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away and we notice this
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
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 in the
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 all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence we
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 we
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.