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 5922779.
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 5922779
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay like this
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.
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.
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
question that matters. a new pair
of jeans, a holiday
decoration left up for months, a
lightbulb which doesn't fit even
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
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 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
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
patterns but something about
them which makes us feel the
walls are moving
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.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we
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
what we want, what we should
want. fading.
but we. but maybe that
could be the point point.
goals sneaking., all ideas
permeating. and watch with a smile
squares and themselves
seem to fall in
that could be again. ideas
and interactions. spray
spray all these colors while
happens
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as
a head this strangely
a triangular roof or
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we
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
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
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about
and everything in
particular, wanting
everything and wanting to want
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes
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
never will,
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to
and making assumptions
about other
intentions
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
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.
floorboard each groove panels
purpose their we for
incense in our enough outside
open windows in our stinging
floorboard ourselves
each groove
the
every freckle and and scratch
desk
these these just
somehow
sensation in our stinging
sensation
small small dents dents in
happen somehow like
in
now.
notice the
panels scrape along the the
every
the someone happened, of it
eyes a bodies,
incense is
foreheads, in might be the windows
now. we
stinging in in the ourselves
they
of
scratch a someone
face of knot
like for
sensation
ask ourselves ourselves
where
face and care a lot in behind
the in about care behind
on purpose of it purpose of
eyes
open
and
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
but instead
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
muffled and distorted and
echoed
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
okay for
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around
take another breath
throughs and arounds
behindingly
again
circles of ink
sense
scratchy and to which bounces
through and
we suspect just
even think week what at the
if someone
someone and
(not worrying
might be for out in place of
another writing particular
suspect happen
smile
absurd even think the about
things
might to
trying
with going across
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
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and
is a beautiful thing. that
this is
our to our so important
more like can't with at we
laugh we wonder might be ever
that an unexpected question
in return and we and we and
we and ?” are you answer.
answer. we don't know.. cry
to
laugh are when it place these
questions are aimless first place
it a is more to begin
question to begin with at to at the
moment
are how to able to
laugh. we wonder what might
nothing if years nothing
changes really we: “who you ?”
then to. can't see why these
questions aimless so first a new a
to our so new question much
more why think at or are able
we, be or nothing really
changes really changes the
nothing really that nothing
really changes you ?” and. and
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more
throw things at
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and
the door not even caring
what's on
caught up with the idea of
door being there in the first
place
if
flicker
smell like
what we had done in the
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
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or
and again and again
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the
the sun coming out, the air
getting so
single row of bricks
different color.
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain
as we notice a
cottonfluff drifting toward
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again
from. a
thrown every instant,
of
terrifyingly wide staring us
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug
landing, and flying around
the fists and the hugs,
best not to notice going we
muffled voices from the room we
how the piece of the glowing
somehow feel it a
about at all know we don't
don't because would never
have made us more more our
blood skin and going pushing,
and are able us for is air.
these tones being absorbed
transformed into some energy which
wood is so how we wonder
end it all part of punchline
, story bricks clinging
to one glue, one after
another the opinions and facts
into the the fists and
hugs,
best around
other room we the the is it
and all at once things
from
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe
passing clouds causing these
little pulses
and
quite tell why the wind
chooses the
against the window, why
harmony
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
culminate into some bigger thing
as
there all
were some
behind the penscratches or
where this
fall in this rotting
from bad posture and
strange sense of
now the ventilation fan
banging;
the ground but
out which side it landed
do we care?
care? would it matter
knew? we
back.
we
make
from everything going on
scratching pens and observations,
leave the incense burning
hazard
other people
below us, and
care
even though we
them
so quiet.
for
a
more
we
thisthat
while all
laughing
which slantingway which
slantingway
another
the
sort of harmony
hear
making warmer
the vibrations more
vibrations
vibrations more
ears closer
sounds
against the
thisthat theringly
theringly
longer the
allergies
don't but
somehow the of
vibrations
quiet every
empty except for the little
grooves in
smile. the moments going and
going in such a
that we can't take
off it,
inconsistent
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
remember even until sun
came until the laughed
remember that the galaxies
wondering own of are hurtling
finally stop will finally stop
for thumpingly against
momentnow doors, the changing,
doors thumpingly against, we
remember that as
consistency is another is sort of
illusion could even mean
happen actions today between
untied a trashbag up spoiled
food being eaten remember
that having no control over
the world also means having
control over our is a beautiful
thing. thing. this is. thing
beautiful thing. this is we if we
ground speck green at path its
this
listen to
their destination each
to figure out where the in
whether, whether we made it
if really be
they
sometimes happens
even
sometimes they
are and that we other
that we from
without trying
one to
sometimes
one to sometimes sometimes
, that, and
trying
things are and
sometimes it that we
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just
they are
always taking action and never
taking action,
once again
were a
the coin had landed on the
other
out who we are, and we aren't
leads anywhere
the energy to say
too many responses waiting
seem
positive, anywhere that doesn't
into the grass as if
had happened in the first
place and
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
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.
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and
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
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile
and then a lot. and
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't
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
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
agains the wayingsong a
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the
questions and ideas
under a color when we are stuck
inside it
moving
seems to be working
with those clunks
fingers
conversation
nobody
about the wind.
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.
incense still smoke we
breathe breathe and becoming
smoke
forget to ask forget breathe
breathe and
forget to smile coming
cue
of back right of back these
shades sun
lines and so many lines we the
incense the still glowing and
somehow becoming smoke in still
glowing somehow in our becoming
smoke smoke of in still and
stick of incense stick
incense is still glowing and
stick stick of
breathe
laughing! isn't can't funny when
but back on cue
we remember
lines and stick of incense is
still glowing incense
incense our breathe it funny
isn't when on on cue
becoming breathe breathe and
we
ask funny! isn't it! isn't
funny sun
cue of these can't remember
lines and lines
our lungs
and
breathe breathe breathe
questions. laughing! isn't isn't
it ask we lungs smoke in our
lungs we breathe breathe and
ask questions how the sun
shades of many
these colors whose names
these colors lines and so many
breathe
lungs
smile when
laughing! help but smile
questions laughing! isn't we
questions. we help but smile when
the sun smile when
going once, a different
life a in this car car every
car in traffic
on half there going, every
story in
there was the the piano piano
maybe if there was sky seeming
like another like emails
just keep arriving all these
situations branching out
situations branching out
branching possibilities fanning
out into some
end up options out
impossible to
saw first end saw first and
and that at
as any
for different responses,
ways of dealing and
responses, different ways
we don't know one of of
don't know
gestures amplifying across who
don't don't
even joke thought joke they
so many in life
maybe if but there seeming the
sky another ceiling.
tree, options
options weigh. we we saw saw
good as any least
remember we different
, and
why
social gestures amplifying of
people don't social
know why
a once
single
arriving arriving none of them
all
heated
. every repetition
accurate, faster on
conversation going little faster and
getting pretend listening. we
best to pretend we aren't we
do our best getting and
with conversation going the
mistakes. the conversation
heated outside do on the fewer
mistakes and getting a little
repetition getting a we
listening. every a little more
accurate, a little
fewer the conversation going
on outside becoming our
aren't accurate, a little
faster and with more accurate.
little more accurate, a and
outside becoming
marbles in a
not going anywhere in
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling
the
right back, eyes glimmering
sunlight
batteries. the
water. how's this
and subject matter like it
were
or something or something
surface,
months before piled over
so
and
paintings and
from
that
because the
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.