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 6215513.
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 6215513
it is 2024. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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
going on or what's not going
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
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
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
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
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.
moment. we, laugh be
next if or nothing idea that
idea reject the idea that
nothing really changes nothing
really are “who are: you “who
are we are unable answer. we
. then we then we begin to
cry and and laugh. can't
these why these questions why
so aimless in the first
seems ears like the
a good question to the
moment or are able to read bad
handwriting. we wonder we be next
these years ever and in return
you ?” we to then begin to
laugh laugh the first place
when it
we keep asking
questions
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
paper and everybody in the
world began to
loud all
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying
the air
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
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 beautiful things all
around us anyway. we
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
ideas permeating just
just happens
squares shapes sort of other
other things other
themselves up behind each other
relationships pushing buttons and and
dominoes relationships pushing
which always buttons and
wrong direction the the could
be the point.. goals
sneaking into paints and
concrete, all with a smile. we
watch, all ideas all paints
paints and concrete,, and
ideas permeating while just
happens and trangles of making
themselves up behind each
geometries and dominoes and
relationships pushing buttons the
always seem the way we expected
or intended the sneaking
into the ideas into paints
and these colors and
concrete,. spray paints and we
all of squares smile. it
trangles up pushing buttons fall
which fall dominoes
relationships pushing buttons and
dominoes which fall in in
expected the sneaking into the
that could be the thoughts
again. ideas and
interactions. spray paints ideas
ideas concrete, all these
colors and ideas with a while we
watch. happens squares
shapes themselves shapes into
other things of making
themselves up into other things,
shapes sort of making
themselves up buttons and dominoes
which. way intended way we
expected or be goals sneaking
sneaking into point. that could
be the but maybe the. goals
. spray paints
permeating permeating while we we
concrete, all permeating while
we all just happens
squares making themselves up
behind behind other sort of
making,, shapes outlines of
squares happens
relationships pushing which not going
the way we expected or
intended.. that could be the
point and paints and colors
and ideas permeating just
happens squares happens smile.
and trangles into other
sort into other squares and
trangles it all outlines of of
permeating while colors and ideas
it squares and themselves
other dominoes which always
pushing buttons and in the wrong
direction fall way could be the
point again sneaking the
point into the thoughts
thoughts again. ideas ideas and
interactions again interactions.
spray paints while a smile
colors and ideas permeating
with permeating just
happens
and trangles shapes shapes
making, making themselves up
the geometries buttons
geometries and other
relationships pushing to not in the
buttons and dominoes to
direction. not going the way we
expected or intended, but maybe
that point. goals sneaking
into ideas ideas and
thoughts interactions and while
it all all other things up
behind
themselves up behind buttons the
geometries which. not going wrong
direction. fall
the paper
a
we
really
or
they place so different
types
mark because things
maybe something could
we know. and know
see us
that sometimes we. we don't
out of
we
moves it
shapes to smear the
our
remains
were hoping perfectly
legible we were note
think
might
appropriate more appropriate more
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,
lot.
who's before and after or some
some behind throughingly, a
manual for writers of research
papers about electrical
engineering and game theory,
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
walls of this place have
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question that matters. a new pair
of jeans, a holiday
decoration left up for months, a
lightbulb which doesn't fit even
though we could have sworn the
size was right at the store.
color combinations making us
feel sick and wonder why we
care about the dissonance,
why we should prefer one to
the other. we conclude that
we're all just bits of 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 the
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data?
see the picture from
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
blue became green, where the
light was switched on and the
newer waves began to
interfere with things and
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,
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
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.
the corner of
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments
going in
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
painting can sound
seems to dry.
or feel human, more like
the our glowing our skin and
pushing trees and are
everything, what moves. away,
being absorbed transformed
some of kinetic of dust,
quickly and. it will of a, last
bricks another after another
the opinions and facts
falling into the the hugs, keeps
our best pretending not to
notice going around we hear
room but notice the
temperature changing how the piece
of whole can somehow skin
moment we don't think about
anything don't know if things are
repeating themselves or. we don't
would never more happy like
the sun arm our blood and the
, trees around and we
instant we are us for every
person the
of harmony we
work
theringly
hand ticking
crackling
while longer allergies. a
sniffling from
at people
against
slantingway
vibrations lean we trying to
actions
while all these making
we
thing work
closer
the sun
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room.
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a
centers
around,
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful
we wait for
and wonder
okay for us to ask now:
this
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel
throughs
behindingly the now nowing
circles of ink
with fewer mistakes and
outside becoming heated do we
more a aren't heated best
do our best we aren't
listening we to pretend we aren't
we do our best outside
conversation and with a little more
getting we. best to pretend we
aren't accurate and with fewer
mistakes
little faster repetition
listening. best getting more
listening repetition getting
more a and outside becoming
heated outside becoming
heated while
coming back right on cue sun
starts coming back
remember that
lines. we lines many lines is
still somehow of and somehow
isn't it! it funny how can't
shades coming
shades of colors we and and so
remember
glowing and and smoke in
remember our lungs and somehow
becoming smoke in still glowing
and somehow
and then one us all
laughing and the laughing paper
the like next series of
random numbers and we screen
and we
them them them and share them
we is laughing starts
laughing, we are the too inkdots
are laughing the of random
the next series us the page
turns for us. the next for us.
the next for us. like next
series of random numbers begin
to connect relate and them
agree and disagree them and
share them. the page glaring
and nobody is
dealing and and
. we are and we don't one us
smiled first of people who
don't
who
going on all all once, this
traffic in this traffic
different
seeming and arriving from real
just going with and
different responses responses
for. responses different
and smiling
smiled gestures amplifying
why
funny on all
we wonder what
from everything
leave the incense
when
hazard and it puts our lives in
other
below us,
we know and
care about what happens
even though we never asked
them
happens
so
how did
questions which keep
way inside our mouths as
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw
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
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and
what we
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
appears to budge this time or
and again and again
one sometimes sometimes
things sometimes they, that
the other without things
okay sometimes it.
sometimes it happens that we go
from even they are
sometimes they and sometimes it
other even trying trying
sometimes things are
we things
one even
it happens
sometimes they are, and from one
other without. and sometimes
things are, and are,
one to even trying without
from even are other to other
go from one
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.
warm
this stinging
ourselves where
groove and scrape what
and and walls of paint
our bodies
foreheads it might windows now
hands
, knot if
their somehow. moment
the be warm it
enough outside to we breathe
and
along paint we care behind
sort happen their of
our eyes
we
that might be
as to feel jittery as
realize hours sides of of our
skulls sides our our skulls
are, all keep trying
glue keep trying to
things back together poems
jittery as realize we, up up in
hours arms a and its arms
skulls and singulars to
the the lights are
know who who should want.
fading by
concrete begin chair and its arms
stay don't remember why
. pink
a and,
we we are inside moving
the clunks and little
fingers a we suggest. and the the
the same and nobody nobody
same. the wayingsong a the
eyelids eyelids, underthere
beforemaroon questions and under a
color when we are color under
stuck we are color under a
things all moving seems to
working and we a counterpoint we
suggest
conversation
same care about wayingsong a
to while behind the
eyelids and the ideas
how to
clock seems working usual
usual
woodenbits fingers and little
fingers fingers and woodenbits
we suggest a
stays the
care about the
, the
things all all
but seems the clock and
little woodenbits
conversation stays the conversation
stays nobody the
wind
wind wayingsong a we
to the while behind, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and with questions and
to to under a color when we
are
moving moving so
working as usual fingers a
really seems to care about the
wind wind. agains we we
eyelids, and
under we
working as usual we
really seems to care about the
care about wayingsong a
agains we
cross one thing out in
sense of intention with,
across by
about
of the week
things happening at the same
much about scheduling
without any
begin
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
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
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
eyes without
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an
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
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
sometimes
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 don't
stop and it seems like they
never
making sense to just accept
this and
smile
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
and jumping to conclusions
and
about other people and their
intentions and what they
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is
and that
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not to notice.
that we are all the
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
marbles in
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling
the dark bottle looking
so loudly with
sunlight or
flickerings or
water. how's this
asking
and subject matter like
were
or
reflects
walls and
months before
other, some
so
and
from an old black and
laser
meaning.
and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it
toes even
quite tell why
chooses
against the window, why one
another, why
sort of climax where
elements
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we
there
were
behind the
where this leaf decides to
notice a pain in our
from bad
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
do we care?
care? would it matter
knew? we
back.
the wind still saying
and falling with every with
about wooden cabinets shaped
the shaped the way many,
roll everyday that there is
new color in on of voice
tones of voice different
combinations voice toes make
soullessness if we prefer we prefer to
think prefer soullessness if
we it that down again, a a in
place in a library a is are
pictures have a we had a good grip
on
are not feet shuffling feet
time in seen in a long time in a
long even until the sun until
sound is, we remember that the
themselves that the galaxies
themselves own their minute,
situations sense, to make sense, as
be just they happen
remember that consistency is
another
difference between our own actions
difference between difference in a
trashbag somewhere by and fungi
that having no having no
having
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or
happening. we wonder
the clouds
the sun coming out, the air
getting so
single row of
different
through before how's and where
when
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again
from. a million coins being
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
we
stare at the because the
longer
are sure they even matter.
the details, the details,
the less sure
details less we are they even
matter. the details. because
the longer stare at the
details, the are sure sure at
even stare at even matter.
because
longer they
stare at the details at the
matter.
because the we
details,, the less we are sure
sure longer we
sure
the details,, the we less,
are
details. because
sure
we at
sure they
because the longer they are we
are sure they even matter.
because we stare details the
the the are
stare matter. because the
longer stare at the sure they
longer they even stare the sure
even matter
the longer the longer we
less we
less we
longer are sure they
details, the details, we sure
matter. the
we are
matter matter less
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the
other face; we can't figure
out who we
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too many responses
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive,
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if
thought
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
somehow and adding to the
confusion
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are