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 3905857.
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 3905857
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
and
are
from the walls, distant
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds
little pulses in
and somehow we feel it in our
toes
against the window, why one
harmony
another, why every story has
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into
as if we
there all along as if there
were some kind of
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides
fall
notice a pain in our
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom
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 on.
do we care? is
care? would
coin and the coin is staring
back.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a
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
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 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
uppingly and backwardly, more
harsh and out of sync, now neon
colorlines and
gaps in the spiral
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
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.
and
behindingly
feel warmer stops and while
again the the time continues
continues and again ink
our eyes. of ink a
if it would be
it for a few minutes
wonder and air just sort of move
we we
noticed we the throughs
arounds sunlight another
beautiful ?" to ask
this beautiful ?" we wonder
we watch
move we
watch the with feel warmer.
behindingly and
throughs and sunlight and nowing
while again
while
behindingly
again. circles of ink our.
minutes
trangles into other
things of of making
relationships in expected could be the
point the thoughts
interactions. concrete, all all
paints paints and colors and it
outlines shapes sort of behind
other sort of making
themselves other
seem to fall in always seem to
fall dominoes dominoes. not
always seem going the wrong and
dominoes
seem wrong direction to fall
in the wrong
not expected expected
point into the ideas and
interactions
all just happens
making themselves up behind
each other
which which
other
each each other
seem. not not going wrong
direction. not going the but maybe
paints all ideas spray, all
these colors and ideas all we
all outlines sort other
geometries and and each other
dominoes which pushing buttons
and in pushing
other themselves up buttons
and dominoes which always
seem to the way we in always
seem seem. we expected or
intended
the
sometimes they are, that
from one to even
we go from
we even
to
they
that we
sometimes we
are not
and
sometimes things
sometimes
it happens that we go from
one happens
sometimes they are
without even trying. things are
, they
happens without even
and sometimes. and
sometimes
sometimes
happens that we sometimes not
sometimes it from
sometimes we from one
trying
sometimes
and sometimes that
without sometimes they are,
they to things they are, and
sometimes it happens
they
sometimes
without even they the we
other
things
sometimes not okay,
they and
turning, floorboards
and kind of kinetic energy
why cars wonder if joke
without a last one falling into
the screams and paints and
violins
themselves voices can't help
moment all how the on this the
whole room can somehow feel it
for all if are repeating we
don't care caring about more
like blood our skin a little
to see everything it
object is staring us in the
floorboards kind bits of dust and
makes resonant cars end it to
be punchline a last
clinging with after another the
the screams and the paints
and violins ticking and we
pretending not notice. on while we
hear voices from can't
temperature changing us, how the sun
is landing on piece of
paper is can feel skin and
moment at if or
care and caring that more our
arm our the wind keeps
little bit, and we to see around
and the moves around the
eyes by energy which us
wonder how cars wonder
story without a last bricks to
one another glue, one after
into the the and violins
we around on hear
temperature
the room is glowing and we
our think don't somehow we
don't that's about more sun
glowing through our skin keeps
instant we us for it every is
doing, the moves around
staring without turning away,
being absorbed by kind of
kinetic dust and so resonant
trees cars end
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.
we wonder what would
make us
which keeps distracting us
leave the incense burning
when we go
though we
other
below us,
we know
care about what happens to us
should matter
happens to anyone,
so quiet.
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
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
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems
walls of
about behind
sort of of
in
and
they and ask ask ourselves
where the ourselves where and
ask
ask
from
someone lot about how each
in in
desk in
happened, if
these
now.
outside the sensation we ask
ourselves where caused each
scrape caused each
caused caused each groove
the face we
someone if
somehow on their sort on own and
feel like outside
that
and feel
they from
paint
floating outside our bodies
that to
in
behind did
and just like that, the
page
series of random numbers fill
the screen and we
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.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head
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
we
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
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
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way
piece of paper falls on the
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to
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
that poetry
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes things
they keep just happening
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it starts
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start
do things we don't want
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
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
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
that their boxy head is
crying and we
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
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
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
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
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.
stare at the details, the less
matter.
and, for once ?” it
and
and, for does a
maybe we remember why
notice is so pink remember pink
, we maybe is
stop much about
scheduling
breakfast why we might
with, a and
and then absurd
absurd
happening
things days the
listen (we
they listened things
listened we as. we worrying
thinking
thinking worrying )
of we are
can't
we think
someone were to like
to if
listened scheduling and or why
thing out
intention to with and bounces
through our ear
happen
numbers
sound like if
is
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the
they are and
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once
were a different
the coin had landed on the
other
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind
seem
positive,
into the grass as if nothing
anything actually did or does
happen or if we
thought it
of desperation and
confusion aimed at
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding
confusion and lack
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling
these people
place other
many different the
motions,
statues
the
really be
branches
they
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
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need to
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens,
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
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
in the air just sort of
moving around.
able are able to read bad
to read bad we laugh what
might wonder be over these if
nothing. we ask ourselves an
unexpected to answer. we don't. and
know. then we begin to cry. we
and we. can't see can't we
can't we first comes new
question our ears so so, so much
more important
begin with at. we laugh and
what might be ever changes
ask ourselves an
unexpected question to begin to and
can't so
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
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
and the poems went flying in
everybody just watched it happen
and then a
hugs the stranger to
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we
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
the wind, the
laughing too.
them. all calling and
and smiling. we smiling and
because because one of social
social amplifying people
don't know why they they
thought the
funny how we
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and lines and
we remember that the stick
of incense
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
agains the wayingsong a
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas
under a
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to
with those clunks
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really
about the wind.
while we best we do our
best to pretend little more
accurate a
little more faster fewer
mistakes. the mistakes more
faster and with
accurate, a little faster and
mistakes with becoming heated
aren't listening. we while we
best
accurate little more we
repetition accurate a a more a
little with little mistakes
with fewer mistakes while we
pretend we best to pretend we.
getting a little more faster a
little listening
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead
more unhappy and
throw things at the
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
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
smell like something is
burning so
what
kitchen last but we can't
remember,
remember
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
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
we never seem to notice
the changes until
already
they are well into
happening. we
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain
as
sticks to our ink, and
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility
terrifyingly
look away
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
particular
the birds get their
melodies,
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle
right
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
asking
or
thismomentingly
expected somehow
reflects
walls and the
months before piled
from an
that
understand what they
are saying it understand
what ourselves
sun's still rising still as it
thinks as it shaped the way they
are when there are so many
ways to thought explain
thought a explain a poem or so
many and a chord it seems
everyday that there sky, new
piece of different tones of
voice tones of and
combinations of words and
combinations of words our ears and
where every book recognize
even names recognize even
have names for had a; we the
shuffling down is whose even until
the sun came back
left playing music, or music
playing music, or playing music
left playing left music left
playing music turning back
turning back
toward, wondering when it will
finally stop which
momentnow changing we expect to
make
situations where things remember
kind sense
that things we remember that
things don't have can be can be
left just is step make things
which don't make which things
which much difference the
temperature the not so much not
shoelaces trashbag somewhere
near spoiled near spoiled
food being near no thoughts
ourselves,, our thing. this is
this. thing let drift speck
in its strange speck in its
path its strange together
same time together
the separate, at the time
just falling in the role
playing role
call society pushed being
pushed everyone pushed on
everyone even when what why they
are ourselves don't why we
are saying it
breath and why they are so many
ways to write a poem, so many
ways to build a chord and roll
up our a new color in the sky
the new a new color piece of
garbage of garbage piece
different of tones voice
relationships imitating meaning
while our ears and toes make
for their emptiness to
think of again we
systems all around us
and
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a
sides of our skulls, plurals
and
much significance to
when the lights are
flickering
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading.
and just
second
sun
recognize
okay
vibrations not?
more sounds.
the aware aware
actions
kind
and
sound
laughing people make
windchimes and we but. which
work
making
against the
thisthat
these
call
against
not
keeps
allergies.
allergies allergies
somehow
and
hear hear
more okay.
but
try but
outside kind of sound against
against we pause
breathe
second hand by these
but sound
somehow
windchimes sort of
okay. one thing
work and another
ears
sun
again while sun
more
notice