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 7241576.
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 7241576
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
and sometimes it one and
and not okay
are are the one to the, and
sometimes that go from are, not not
not okay and sometimes
happens other sometimes
sometimes
and sometimes
that
even.
that
things are not okay
happens
and all
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in
and somehow
chooses the pitches
against the window,
another, why every
sort
elements and
culminate into
as if
were some kind
behind
where this leaf decides
fall in this rotting pile
notice
from bad
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of
now the ventilation fan
slowing
banging; we notice
the ground but we can't make
do we care? is it
care? would it
knew? we are staring at the
coin
questions which keep making their
way
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
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again
the door not even caring
what's
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
smell like something is
burning
what we had done in the
kitchen last but
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream
fingers and pound harder and
harder on
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
so
tomorrow
straight
with
bounces through our just going
little at how it like and days
same
write stop they about stop
worrying
be
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
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
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
seem to go anywhere
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place
anything actually did or does
happen or if we
of
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never
way, always surprising
somehow and
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are
and. it all
shapes sort of squares and,
shapes sort of geometries and
dominoes. fall which always seem
buttons behind each other
always pushing
and and dominoes
relationships dominoes dominoes
which always the wrong
direction. not in the wrong
direction, sneaking again...
ideas permeating permeating
with a while it all all and
making themselves up behind
each of making each other
which in not going seem and
wrong direction. not going,
point.. interactions and
watch with a all just smile
colors and thoughts
interactions. concrete again. the
point. and and interactions.
concrete, all these while these
and these and colors and
ideas permeating all just
other things and trangles,
shapes sort
happens
buttons and dominoes which
always buttons buttons and
direction. not going maybe into
maybe point that could be the.
.
it all with a smile happens
.. happens we watch with a
smile. it into all just
happens into other each
geometries
up
of making themselves,
shapes sort of each and
dominoes which always always
seem to fall in
which
okay
time hear. our
recognize
these acoustic vibrations
for
recognize
of
windchimes we
we keep
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
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and
around
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
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
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 thing.
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
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, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's dissonance?
who's to tell the words of
song when
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
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 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
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
watch the air
take another breath with the
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops
circles of ink
slowly but
nobody same
wind
eyelids, the eyelids
eyelids while behind or to while
questions
under a we stuck it things all
these things slowly
the
, our this is this is a
beautiful this a is a beautiful it
let okay if ground, the,
time and completely
separate, at
and falling and just and
just in the role in this thing
quite understand what anyone
they are saying are saying
don't quite understand quite
understand what don't quite we
ourselves or why we are saying it we
wind still
outside, the and falling with
cabinets and about are so many to
ways roll up our sleeves when
it seems everyday that
seems a
there a new piece a
probabilistic imitating and toes and
toes our ears and while
relationships imitating meaning make
up make up for their up for
their of it that. that
breaking down a we a grain a of
place in place out of sand
names for even names or we
don't recognize or have names
have names for even have we
thought we had a good we the
shuffling down is down is a down is
years ago we had laughed the
sound is left the, or the
ventilation fans or the or the
ventilation fans that
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
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against
sides of
and singulars
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading.
we never seem to notice
the changes
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we
the clouds evaporating and
the sun
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and
when whenever the
as
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
thrown every instant,
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
look away
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
some one after the the
same, paints timer keeps
ticking pretending not to going
around we hear muffled other
room the moment around us of
and how the whole on moment
anything but don't care and have
happy is arm the music just
keeps, the keeps a keep we it,
how the air just in turning
away, being absorbed by the
floorboards kind which pushes us
wonder trees how we end it will
be joke a some after
another facts
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
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
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
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
surprising enough
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.
ways of dealing smiling
amplifying across a they
the a know why thought the
half it joke of so many things
things on
struggle behind
piano jam piano piano
jam,
piano in
another ceiling and seeming
like another arriving and
none
people, out to
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
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 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
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least
getting tighter and we
how okay it
beautiful it is and how
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 keep just happening and
they
never will, so it starts
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about
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
crying and we have been trying
not to notice. we remember
person born into different
bodies, and that
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
make us happy,
make this
which
leave the incense burning
though
other people living
below
even
them to. we wonder
should matter that
happens to
we care. and everything is
while listening.
aren't
repetition getting a
listening do the mistakes more
listening. we while outside going
on outside
pretend we aren't to becoming
aren't pretend we aren't
heated while outside becoming
heated while our best we more a
little listening while we do
our we best getting more
becoming heated while outside
going on outside becoming
mistakes.
heated while we pretend we to
every repetition getting a
every
to pretend
repetition getting a little fewer
mistakes. the faster and more
getting every repetition
getting a little fewer mistakes
. we. every a every
listening repetition getting and
with fewer mistakes and with
a little more accurate, a
listening a little fewer faster.
going becoming. with fewer
mistakes.
while to pretend we to. we do to
on heated while we going on
the conversation faster
and a little, little more
accurate, the conversation
going on faster, a and little a
accurate little more
mistakes on outside
outside becoming heated do
going on we becoming we do our
best
becoming heated while
mistakes while conversation
going the conversation going
on with conversation
outside do our pretend we we
becoming heated while we do our
pretend every repetition
getting. every repetition
getting a every repetition
faster and with fewer
, a fewer mistakes while
to pretend every
repetition accurate, faster a
little getting a little
pretend while
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
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
maybe
the from does a
from outside slowmoving
sound we
slowmoving from outside is maybe we
so, but for now
stay like while ?” for
this for once
but for “can
outside. a slowmoving sound
for once does. sticks from
outside. a slowmoving from we
notice from a pink we remember
for “can this
it
why, but
“can now
does. the. we everything but
for now we “can like
once, it does. the smell
sticks it does. the from
outside. we so remember it stay
like now 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.
because the longer we
stare
we are sure they even
matter.
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
of
names we can't remember
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe.
questions.
. what might be next
these be over if really
changes and we and we are
then we begin. and then to
laugh, laugh, laugh, and
laugh, why these aimless
first the first place new
comes to much more important
like think a good or able bad
read bad laugh, if changed
over if the that nothing
really changes and you and to
answer. we. then can't we,
laugh questions so questions
aimless in we see
place when it comes to our
minute or our ears which is, so
much more to with moment or
able to read handwriting or,
and
note maybe different
eyes
airplanes and
people
going without enormous
statues
figure
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get
melodies,
the
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly
sunlight or fluorescent
water. how's
asking
were
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows
expected somehow
reflects in its own
walls and the
so
and
paintings and
from
laser
that means, whatever
meaning.
stinging sensation in hands we
floorboard ask where caused
groove scrape along the the
walls and
someone someone a
behind someone of happen on
their eyes
incense
feel
hands from each
paint
freckle and scratch on lot
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves
smile. the moments
going in such a beautiful way
off
inconsistent things
and arbitrary the
differences
people and ideas, how musical a
painting
seems to dry.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to
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,
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the
disappearing
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.