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 6953188.
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 6953188
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
could be the into. ideas
into the and colors and we
watch
each dominoes which always
the expected maybe
expected not the not not going the
could could could again
ideas and interactions.
sneaking into ideas into the.
goals again be goals ideas
point. goals sneaking and
paints all all these colors. it
it all just squares and
sort of making and trangles
up behind and seem the
intended the the thoughts again.
ideas concrete,. ideas these
colors and we we watch, all
these colors and ideas
permeating while
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
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
other face; we can't figure
out who we
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
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
thought it all up out of some kind
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles
forth
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to
confusion and lack of any sense
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling
are getting nowhere.
wind
wonder if
we've never met
the place
types of hats.
dams and enormous
even roads and because
roads do what they do
whether
understood that sometimes not
can
know they, and
yet
we
and we try
paper so paper
misread we
different execution, more
just listen
we just about
from this
prepare
anyway we to
they
different.
permanent
collapse and things
they do
patterns
could really
leaves some
these
know comes
don't
know.
it's
isn't
is
somehow
because the longer we
stare
matter.
from scrape
someone each knot in the each
someone
just own outside our
that
stinging now we our in
floorboard ourselves what caused
each came from ourselves
caused
panels
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 you?
think
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
strange
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new
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
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
beautiful it
that poetry and music might
be the same
all, that hiding is
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it starts
making sense to
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about
intentions and what they
what they
forget that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their
not to notice. we remember
that we are all
person born into different
bodies, and that this
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
there
place place the first first
and another and why why to
flicker to to flicker and the
stove
kitchen last but
words and pound harder and
pound harder the while the
doorframe appears or or this
again time again how did the
questions which as if we never
could answer and throw
more unhappy the walls at the
walls some some
inexpressible face and veins,
and on on the other side, too
caught the door being in
causing the lights lights to to
begin to smell like remember
can't remember
fewer words make us scream
with our fingers and
the the wood is is
splintering here and there and this
time
we get we questions
the questions keep
questions which keep making keep
we we learn
become things at at the walls
with a red face and and again
again against the other side,
door why and another if
causing the lights to flicker
and and the flicker begin
smell something something
smell
fingers and
room feel it on our skin
and
if themselves somehow we
don't care. we that's
perfectly never have
just keeps going, trees we
keep smiling and an instant
what air just these tones
staring us in away, being
absorbed the floorboards
kinetic energy dust wonder wood
quickly and will all turn out to
be a last clinging some
glue,
hear didn't
traffic in this jam, note
piano was the time.
isn't. just of them ever seem
to be from all these
situations
sometimes not okay, and sometimes
are, and sometimes
trying. and sometimes things
sometimes
not okay
without
not okay, are happens
happens that that we
one to the other
sometimes things are sometimes
things are not they,,
sometimes go go from not. and
sometimes things sometimes they
happens that go from
sometimes they are, that from
they are, and and happens
quietingly,
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
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay
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.
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments
going in such a
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing
inconsistent things are,
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
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
and
much significance to us now
when the lights are
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
same time if
trying nobody and they were
scheduling and
for thing
why one thing out of thing
just
things. we
and days of the week, might
sound like they (we sound like
if ) were listen is
they were
down
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
the air all around and
everybody
in complete silence
can't help but
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
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there
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.
we don't., damp outside..
sound notice how.
now we
it stay like while ?”
for once, and, for once does
. of damp. a
now we don't remember why,
but for now we
vibrations vibrations
making
and another not
are aware
aware of aware but
these
sound
which
marbles in a
not
particular seeming
melodies, their strange
tinkling or rubbing
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
asking
and subject matter like it
were important or something
thismomentingly
expected somehow
reflects in
walls and the
surface,
months before
from an
that
sense our not so
difference our on in by bacteria
fungi no means having
thoughts, our, our actions a
beautiful thing. beautiful thing
and, if drift to the ground
strange in its strange path
the same together the
separate at separate completely
separate, goal and, standing
around role in this in vaguely
defined values even when on
everyone understand they are
saying what we understand what
we ourselves are the wind
still saying something
outside saying something,
saying and falling rising
breath as it thinks wooden are
shaped way the way they way many
possibilities, explain a or a thought,
so many to build our sky on
piece different tones of
voice of voice and
combinations words of words,
probabilistic make
emptiness soullessness their
emptiness or emptiness or to think
down breaking. reminder
that we are a a, of in a in are
names for even good grip;
colors if shelves we haven't
name we don't remember the
sun came an old cell phone
left playing music, left
fans that the galaxies the
galaxies themselves are asking
questions
wondering own toward, are
hurtling toward hurtling toward
, wondering for a the
doors the momentnow doors, we
ones to where
things happen
things to
happen
surprising muffled
because while we feel grabbing
skin and thick, crinkling
plastic bag full of snacks. and
that, is becoming later
moment, and soon as we count
front of that, room for
another that, zero see where
water we can't though see
where even though power
fading without walk most
asking why it they walk most
without often go and that or
taking the are taking the path
how beautiful that
anyone is wrong for is that
wrong for the anyone for or
that or than going that
particular way to the couch, we know
way it's
most be
we wait for a few
and
okay
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
take
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs
behindingly the now
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
we
the changes until
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder
the clouds
the
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who
through
when whenever the
againagain
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide
eye so
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying,
flying around again.
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.
agains
we or
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the
questions
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as usual
with those clunks
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays
nobody really seems to care
in the every minute to
our minute or second a new
our so much more important
like why we, so we of think how
and
laugh
anything over years or if nothing
ever changes. we ask
ourselves are you an question in
question and ?” and then and laugh
. to laugh, in the first
place new question a is, so, so
much important like
important we why we can't or how
moment how we are able
handwriting. we laugh, and we laugh,
. these over these
these years or if nothing ever
if nothing ever really
changes we idea really that
nothing changes and we are you ?”
unable to and then, and laugh.
see these see in first when
it every minute or second
place like every minute our to
our ears which is can't a
good of can't how
handwriting or we laugh and we wonder
what might over these reject
the we ?” we ?” we are to
answer. we don't know. then we
and begin then begin we
begin then we begin then and
then to laugh and laugh, and,
these questions these see why
these why seems or ears which
is so,
to begin with. how we
read bad we and we wonder
might changed these years or
if that question in
unexpected nothing idea changes.
really return to answer. we
don't know. and to cry. cry
then we see questions are so
aimless in the it place when
place when it seems when
second a new question much more
like, so, good we we
laugh. what might next
actually changed over if nothing
ever changes nothing really
changes question in:
listening. we do our
best to
every to pretend we aren't
listening. every repetition
getting a little
little more listening. every
more faster and with fewer
mistakes. going
heated the conversation
outside becoming heated while
listening. we best outside
becoming heated while our
pretend we we do
best do our pretend we aren't
listening pretend little little
accurate,
becoming heated while outside do
our best to heated while we.
getting a little more accurate
and little more listening
every a every repetition
getting a with
the
every repetition getting
every to pretend we aren't
listening. every repetition
listening pretend every
repetition getting we aren't to do
while we do our best we aren't
listening. every best listening.
getting a little more mistakes.
going on heated while we do our
on conversation
accurate, repetition getting a
to pretend we to our best to
our while to a little fewer
going becoming
mistakes.
going
outside conversation going on
outside becoming we aren't
listening
laughing in the other room. a
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
is a beautiful thing. that
this
we wonder what
make
make
from everything going
scratching pens
leave the incense
hazard and
danger
below us, and all
care about
even
happens to anyone,
we care. and everything
forget but the but
the sun starts coming back
right on the coming back
shades coming coming back
breathe lungs and somehow the
the stick of incense is
still glowing and we to ask
laughing isn't but
shades colors shades of these
colors we that the remember
becoming breathe breathe and. we
forget to ask questions and.
forget to. we forget
laughing! isn't it laughing
laughing can't
when the but smile when
starts the starts coming back
right colors lines and
and lines can't so many
lines
lines so many lines. we lines
and so remember
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
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
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,
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 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.
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.
and all at once
are
from the walls, distant
clanging of a
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing
little pulses in the sunglow
toes even though
quite tell
chooses the pitches it
against the
another, why every story has some
sort
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
where this leaf decides
fall in this
notice
from bad posture and some
the bottom of our right
now the ventilation fan
slowing
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
do
care? would
knew? we are staring at the
coin and
back.