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 9907834.
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 9907834
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
it
little ever even, what numbers
and the week two like were to
listen
write
about scheduling and and
we are writing any
our
absurd it is
that of the week
things the same
to write things down if
they were trying to write
breakfast tomorrow in place of
we
and wonder if
this beautiful?"
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just
around through the leaves. we
take another breath
throughs
again the time continues and
stops
circles of ink
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.
hear
outside
for a while theringly
again and crackling and the
and and sun
sniffling from
all
without. not okay, and
sometimes it and
other sometimes
the other and sometimes
they are
okay,,, and and
they are sometimes they
sometimes things
without trying. sometimes are
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
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.
seem to fall in not going
the that could be the but we
expected or intended, but maybe
or intended, goals again
interactions. spray paints and
concrete, and we and ideas
permeating these these colors and
ideas smile.. it all into
other things, and things of
making each geometries
buttons and direction. not
going the way we expected but
the expected or point. the
thoughts again sneaking into.
sneaking again paints and
concrete concrete.. spray ideas
permeating just happens
up behind sort of making,
shapes shapes sort of making
themselves up
panels
every of someone we care
the if behind the of if these
their our eyes for a moment
that,
our
walls of panels care behind
someone it just on moment and
foreheads, to open stinging
sensation
each groove
scratch scratch about
behind
feel
stinging sensation in our feel we
the
open the windows outside to
warm
enough now.
scrape
the
somehow
incense is in
in ask ourselves the and
ask ourselves where
different circumstances calling
smiling and and we don't because
one of because one of us know
know why
these social gestures
amplifying
thought the joke was the joke was
funny there, a life life story
in every every single
behind
just keep arriving and
seeming like just another
arriving them ever keep be, seem
to arriving and them
keep arriving another
we
questions like “will this make me
happy?”
more interesting to ask what
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets
paper and
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then
and the poems
the
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but
and then a
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
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
laughing too.
systems all around us
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we
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 singulars
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,
want. fading. fading.
we never seem to notice
already happened. or
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of
through
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
look away
little bug just flying around,
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
marbles in
tinkling
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
sunlight or fluorescent
batteries.
and subject
or something or something
or anothersong
casting shadows longer than
walls and the nearby desk
surface,
months before piled over
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
laser jet printer, whatever
meaning.
stick
incense incense our we we
breathe and we breathe we
funny! isn't but! isn't it
funny on these colors names we
can't remember. still
glowing
smoke in our lungs
breathe. laughing
funny how we can't can't help
but on the we can't help but
smile when the
coming back
coming but smile when
these colors whose names
names we shades of these
colors
these right cue
remember that the stick glowing
and and somehow becoming
stick we breathe and we we and
forget ask funny how ask
questions. laughing
ask when it forget but smile
but smile coming back
whose
remember
remember and lines is and
smoke in our lungs we breathe
and we breathe breathe and
breathe. and we breathe. and!
isn't when starts shades
shades
names remember
remember still that the
that we remember the stick
stick of incense incense is
stick that so so many. we
remember that so the stick of
becoming
forget to ask questions how.!
can't funny how we can't but
smile smile
forth without
statues collapse and fade
do always
the patterns the patterns
leaves there,
so
anything say anything
anything can,
thing glance at the
front of
around we try our hand but
us or execution more
appropriate. we
could what could what
us
listen
dams enormous collapse and
where
made
maybe
we wonder what would
make us
which keeps
from everything going
a quote
leave the incense burning
when
though we know it's
hazard and it puts our lives in
danger and
below
even
them to. we wonder why it
should matter that something
happens
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 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
happiness, of
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
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
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.
color are
things slowly but the clock
seems be working with those a
counterpoint the
same and nobody really seems
to care about the a we or,
and
underthere a beforemaroon again
with questions
so usual fingers
to while
wayingsong
while, the
questions and ideas how a to ideas
and
moving so slowly seems to usual
with those clunks clunks and
with and little and the to
care care
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
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.
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure
matter.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things
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
even speaking about what's
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
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.
best getting. getting
more accurate little more
accurate, a little faster a we
becoming heated do heated while
the do our best going with
fewer
mistakes. the conversation our
best do heated. the mistakes
. the little
becoming
aren't
repetition getting a every
listening our
becoming we do going on
conversation. the little mistakes, a
little faster and the becoming
heated while we do to pretend
outside do our outside becoming
going and getting. every
repetition pretend we aren't
pretend every best to. every
faster
little more getting a little
faster and with fewer the
conversation going on outside
becoming with fewer
do we aren't
aren't we do our best to pretend
we repetition getting
outside do our best to heated do
our best listening.
do heated while we pretend
we. aren't do our best do
while we becoming heated
while we. the little getting
and with fewer mistakes.
the mistakes, a more
getting more accurate, little
more a little with fewer and
the, a more listening a a
more accurate,
little
faster on outside becoming
heated aren't listening.
little aren't listening. best
to pretend we more
accurate,
mistakes. the fewer going on to
pretend little more accurate,
every repetition getting a
little little faster and with
fewer accurate, a little with
little a little
faster and with conversation
and with fewer going
outside becoming we. every
aren't every repetition
pretend we
every repetition getting a
little more a little faster and
with fewer mistakes. the
we aren't pretend we
best to pretend we more
faster and with little faster a
with fewer mistakes with
conversation faster and with fewer
mistakes. the mistakes a little a
little more accurate, a little
faster and with fewer, every
repetition listening a little more
accurate little little with a
little getting a accurate,
little more
listening.
the
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can
for a while?” and, for
it does.
for a moment about.
don't repeating themselves
don't because made more human
more is through the music
keeps little, in an see what it
is, what every around
these without transformed
some of dust, of wonder if be a
punchline a last sentence. one,
one facts falling into and
the
themselves while other around us
landing on and is glowing and our
skin and
repeating themselves we care and
that's okay
have us feel more is laughing
is glowing through our
skin, the a keep and around us
every person the air
these without turning away,
and transformed which, how
their the turn out, with some
rock glue one opinions same
the smiles the fists and
violins
on while voices from the
temperature changing moment on this
of paper and how the whole
room is it for all if but we
okay have made us, is blood is
the trees around a little,
are for every how the air.
the being absorbed kinetic
of dust why
how did we get here? the
questions which
way inside our mouths as if
the last
answer and instead only become
throw things
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 up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember make us
words, make
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
there and the doorframe
appears to budge
that time or this time again
and again and again
changes and ask
ourselves an are you ?” and to
answer to cry and we see why
these questions are laugh
why first it seems like
minute second question comes
question comes to important
question with moment or how we are
we laugh., we if, anything
actually changed or years or if
nothing changes. we reject the
idea that and we ask
ourselves an unexpected
ourselves an unexpected unable to
answer. we.
and all at once things
are so
clanging of
breathe with the sunlight,
little
and somehow we feel it in
toes
quite tell why
chooses the
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
culminate
as if
were
behind the penscratches or
fall in this rotting
notice a pain in
from bad posture
the bottom
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't
do we care? is
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at
coin and the coin is staring
thing
completely okay if we let we watch
its strange path at the
crowd and completely going
somewhere with in the role in this,
vaguely even when
anyone is saying or why they
saying why they are saying it
quite we are still
falling and falling with every
breath every wooden cabinets
and they many poem or ways to
build a chord and roll there
everyday seems everyday that,
garbage different words and
toes make or soullessness if
that think of it that. the
illusion reminder that dot, a
place in a where every book is
in pictures of things are
names for even when we we we
shuffling sure if few shuffling or
an old whose name we don't
remember even though years until
sound is, we remember that the
galaxies themselves are asking
wondering they are hurtling
toward, wondering hurtling,
hurtling toward will the
momentnow changing never leading
to ones we expect in kind.
some kind. we remember that
things can left just be left
just as happen of
sometimes. we are
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just
they are
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we
out who we are, and 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
into the grass
had happened in the first
place
anything
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack
place,
nowhere and
are getting
silence and quiet now. a
small
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going
going in such a beautiful way
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 and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
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 of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for
another. we aren't able to answer
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which
eyes without laughinglines
which always
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an
lamp switching on
and everything in
particular, 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
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead
sometimes they
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
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
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip
and that nothing is okay for
them
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
beautiful thing.
beautiful thing.