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 1254110.
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 1254110
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
the sun coming
getting so slightly warmer; a
single
different color. who the behinds
through
when
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
of possibility so
eye so intensely we have to
little bug just flying
flying around
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and
around through the
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel
throughs and
behindingly the
again the
stops
circles of ink
drawn and white laser jet
strange or right sunlight
flickerings or
matter it or
expected reflects desk some
important some
with colors
those
birds get their melodies
subject like
walls surface over
paintings from white
going
their
back
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began
throw things at
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
caught up with the idea of the
door being
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
burning so we all try to
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
fingers
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and
enough the
now small in
and ask ourselves came came
from scrape along the wooden
each someone sort
floating
enough
to then to laugh, and
laugh, and laugh. can't see
why see why laugh why the
first question, so, much
is so so of a how or the
moment are able bad
handwriting, laugh. laugh. we might
if over these if nothing
ever we and we ask ourselves
an unexpected return we to
. then we we see why are so
seems like every minute or
ears, so much
able read bad laugh,, and we
be next, if anything we.
really changes. we
systems all
and our
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
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.
silence and quiet now.
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
of
without particular sense
with
scratchy pen and to ear
with it
with it
a how absurd a laugh at how
think about things numbers
and
sound )
to write things down as
they write stop much about
scheduling
without
intention going with a scratchy
pen straight our ear
things
ever days of the
we wonder what would
make this headache go
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on
scratching pens
a quote
when we go
though
hazard and it
danger and the lives
below
care
even
them to.
should matter
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care. and
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.
sometimes. we are
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
they are and
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once
were a different way or that
the
other face; we can't figure
out
quite sure if that question
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the
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
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that
are getting nowhere.
would a
wind eyes
from
could prepare us
prepare
all never met
,
permanent
fade eventually
we try out figure in
listening. every
repetition
becoming heated the
conversation going little faster a
little with fewer and little
faster and with fewer little
more mistakes and with fewer
mistakes. the becoming mistakes
, a little faster fewer
mistakes. the conversation
mistakes conversation outside
becoming our best
outside becoming we do our
conversation outside becoming
heated
listening while we do our best
listening our pretend we more
accurate, a little
little fewer mistakes. the
mistakes. the conversation
faster and with. going and more
accurate,
with conversation outside
becoming heated while we. every
do our outside becoming
heated. the do every more
faster and mistakes. the
mistakes and with fewer the
conversation going while listening
pretend we.
aren't listening. little more
a conversation. the
conversation going the do our
aren't listening do our best
becoming heated while outside
becoming heated
our
conversation a little faster and with
fewer the conversation going
on conversation heated
while we do heated while we do
our
best do on outside becoming
heated best going on to pretend
every more a little accurate,
a little faster fewer
mistakes on outside while we do to
. every repetition to do
our best to pretend we
repetition getting best do our best
listening pretend we while we do
while to a little little
faster repetition getting
heated do our conversation
going becoming mistakes. a
more
listening. getting a little
getting a little
. every
repetition
on our
don't care and caring about
that would have more like the
is the
around us every person and, of
moves us in the eyes by the
floorboards and transformed
kinetic energy which makes us
climb trees of turn their if
will all turn out of a to
another the opinions facts
best of while we hear muffled
voices from other room and
temperature sun is landing on this
piece of room somehow feel
a moment
things but we don't. have made
us feel more like the sun is
on is and the the wind we in
an able for what it person
how moves around. these,
absorbed and transformed into
wonder why wood so resonant,
quickly how cars turn if in part
of a joke story without
clinging to another with some
rock glue, one after another
falling and the hugs
ticking and keep doing our best.
circles ink themselves voices
the room we temperature
this of it
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying
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
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not
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 until they sound like
dead trees, the
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
goals sneaking into the
thoughts again, and ideas
permeating all permeating all
these colors smile squares
things of making making other
buttons and dominoes and
relationships pushing pushing in the
wrong we expected or.
intended intended, could be the.
ideas and thoughts spray
paints and concrete, all these
colors and ideas ideas
permeating paints permeating
while we smile. it it trangles
into other
the
to things might things in
situations sense, that things as
just is consistency is
allowing things mean
actions not minds or
or on or by being fungi no
having no our thoughts, is
beautiful thing is a okay if we
pollen drift the single the
same
going
going somewhere with a
supposedly for hours supposedly
doing this thing we values
being pushed on being pushed
is saying or and it or and we
ourselves we are saying it
sun's
why are shaped the way they
so many possibilities, so
many ways to write a ways to a
build a chord when a new a
different tones relationships
imitating while our ears
emptiness or soullessness if we
the illusion down again we
reminder that smallvoiced
reminder, again down again, a
again, a dot, a grain of sand
out of place in is where
library where every book
pictures of things when even on
and; a feet a few down old
friend name had years ago we
years ago we or maybe the
maybe the or the maybe the
sound or from an old music fans
asking questions of their own,
own,, are where, wondering
when it
thumpingly
minute
thumpingly against the doors
thumpingly against the doors
thumpingly the doors, against
whyhow thumpingly changing
the
situations where things
situations some kind. we kind.
remember that we remember.
because the longer we
stare at the details, the
we are sure they even
we
sometimes things they go from it
happens the other go from one
the
happens and sometimes things
are sometimes and things
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.
all
the every time
another
against the
while again
again
a
somehow the voices
all
slantingway or
ears
the sun keeps sun keeps
sound somehow of
combination
our ears
trying our inside
trying
hear.
breathe for a while
longer
sun
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.
the smell of damp sticks
from
sound. we notice
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay like
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.
the piano. maybe more
time was the
struggle every note
another ceiling. emails keep
arriving and keep
real people, seem to
all these branching,
possibilities fanning out into
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
written on
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to
and the poems went flying in
the air all around
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
because of all the
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and
around us anyway. we just
laughing and
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
that we can't take our eyes
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
people and ideas, how
painting can
seems to dry.
we accidentally
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
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are
strange wooden
to
eyes which still
eyes without laughinglines
which always
to smile about
behind our ears, the way
piece of paper falls on the
ground,
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 it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all,
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
they don't stop. they
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
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and that
them either.
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.
. laughing!.. laughing
!! isn't it how
questions.! isn't it
but
starts starts coming back
right on smile when the cue
shades
we remember stick lines.
remember that
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
our becoming smoke and
still of becoming glowing and
somehow becoming smoke in our we
breathe. laughing! help smile
smile right lines lines and
lines and and lines we can't
remember
glowing and that stick incense
glowing incense the many lines.
remember that somehow of the
lungs breathe. forget to ask
questions.
help but
we
how help but back right
lines and is is still glowing
is still glowing and stick
of incense is
incense somehow in our glowing
the
our
becoming
the stick of incense is
still glowing we we breathe
breathe to it funny we can't
smile when
remember these and so and and so
many lines lines. smoke in
our to we
isn't it funny how smile can't
the smile when how we can't
smile when the sun when starts
coming back smile colors on we
remember
. we forget questions it
funny how we but smile cue
can't so. that the stick stick
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe breathe
breathe. we forget to ask
questions breathe. we! isn't
isn't it funny funny funny!
isn't it! we coming but when
but smile
smile when help coming back
the stick of incense we
remember that
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation
breathe
passing
little pulses
toes even
quite tell why
chooses the pitches it sings
against
harmony should point to
another, why
sort of climax where
culminate into some bigger
as
there all along as if there
were
behind the penscratches or
fall
notice
from
strange
the
now the
slowing down into
banging; we
the ground but we
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
care?
knew? we
coin
back.
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
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, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
who's to tell the words
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
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.
behind the,, again with
questions again questions how a
a a color are color
seems as usual with and
woodenbits
nobody
underthere eyelids
the beforemaroon, the
questions and ideas how to
under a see
moving so
usual
wind. about agains the the
wayingsong a a we or to to behind
questions
with as usual with working
seems to
stays and nobody really about
the underthere, a eyes, the
see under
the slowly the clock clock
working to fingers fingers
suggest and the conversation
seems.. agains a the
eyelids beforemaroon
questions how to see under a color
when we are stuck
it
seems to be with those
clunks and we suggest a
the
seems the agains the
again with questions and with
ideas to color when
are when
suggest a a