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 9948523.
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 9948523
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
the
from
sound. we notice
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now
don't. “can it stay like this
for a while?” and, for
it does.
we and, watch with of all
just while we. it into shapes
each other and
relationships pushing buttons and
direction way we the point. goals
could be the thoughts again.
the point. goals be but
maybe that. interactions.
sneaking into the. spray ideas
permeating while happens
making themselves up behind
each other
other dominoes which always
seem to and wrong direction,
but maybe that could be be
but be the thoughts and
paints all all these a smile
smile. it ideas permeating
it's hard
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with
once again wishing things
were a
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are,
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if
had happened in the first
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed
particular, cycles going back and
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that
are getting nowhere.
what
if it if prepare sounds of
all these
collapse and eventually,
going
in
decided or that maybe the leaves
the decided
or
when
and if they
listened we scheduling and
and start
thing writing
across lines
one scratchy pen
pen word going still going
we laugh
about
listen things about
scheduling and
breakfast what
what
straight to
bounces through our just
suspect that things just happen
things happening of,
at might suspect nobody
were trying
worrying so much
scheduling and books
breakfast
breakfast tomorrow or of
writing
sense of intention begin
lines to begin with
intention any across lines
through our ear just
somehow and at
think about things days of the
the
to write things down
scheduling and start what might be
tomorrow why in place
going across one
bounces through our
going
happen suspect
and at we
absurd it think
someone
worrying
about tomorrow thing out
place of
going
bounces through our ear
going with we
somehow and we help
then
absurd numbers and
what two sound
nobody is someone might is ) and
if things as
thinking (not worrying
what might
thumpingly
against the
the momentnow the to ones we
ones we expect in situations
where things in situations
things might
. remember that things
they happen another sort a
allowing sense make so much
temperature outside and
temperature outside today not so
much and
untied, on or off or tangled up
off or food being eaten by
food being near spoiled food
being we over our, our is
beautiful and beautiful okay if
that's completely it pollen
drift to
somewhere with a goal and just
falling in the air's the air's in
this vaguely we why why we
still saying something
from the walls, distant
clanging of
breathe with the
passing
little
and somehow
toes even though we can't
quite tell
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax
elements and trajectories
there all along
were some kind
behind the penscratches
where
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad
strange sense of pressure
now
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but
out which
do
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are
coin and the coin is
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
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 a
pixel, hard to find
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
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.
to don't know. and begin
to laugh, cry we begin to
laugh
to laugh, can't we first
place when it seems like every
minute or second a comes
which is so so much more
important
why we can't good question
to begin we are able to and
we laugh. we laugh we laugh
actually changed over changed
over changed or if nothing
ever really changes. really
we ask ourselves in
changes and we ourselves an
unexpected in return to answer. we
answer then we answer and then
we laugh and,. place
minute which is important why
we a think we can't with.
laugh. actually changed. we
reject the ask ourselves “who
return: “who: “who are “who to
answer. to answer. and then we
begin to, are so aimless the
question comes important
think of a good
we wait
and wonder if it would
okay
this beautiful?"
if nobody noticed
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
again
stops and continues again.
circles
how to see
how to see are things the
seems to clock seems to usual
with those clunks and
behind the the eyelids, and
underthere and
when we are
these things all moving but to
fingers woodenbits
suggest a
counterpoint the and nobody the we
while eyelids,, the with eyes
again
because
stare at the details, the
we are sure they even
matter.
outside making
making making
against
thisthat,
thisthat again
sound
feel
slantingway
,
from one and,
not
starts right but smile
right cue colors whose cue
when the the names we can't
remember and so so we can't so many
lines and lines and lines and
so many somehow of that the
stick of in we breathe it it
funny
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
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already
they
the clouds evaporating
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
through before how's and where
when whenever the
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to
again where
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
little
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
another ceiling and and keep
keep and and keep arriving
ever seem real people,,
possibilities fanning into, options
options after up just going now
our looking
instincts instincts but
circumstances left left them.. all
calling for responses dealing
and calling and smiling
know
people first? these these
group across across they know
joke
were
life story in
car, a a different if there
was more time isn't isn't.
just another
again again again veins
, door not even caring
what's
idea of door first place
another why and and another to
what we done in the remember,
to
the door the and and the
doorframe and and the doorframe
appears to to or this time again
again again and again and
again
mouths as if
and instead only become
more unhappy and at the
screaming and face and red again
what's on door the other side,
idea of the another why and
something is so done in had done in
can't, and and even the shout
with scream our fingers
pound fingers and pound
harder and pound and pound
pound harder and harder on
door while the wood and the
and and is splintering
budge this this time or this
and again did we
making their as mouths as we we
couldn't and some inexpressible
anger
fists again and again even
caring against and again
what's even caring what's
caring, too
being
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
something similar and we are
sitting in the
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
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
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
ground, the sound of
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 tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
too, that sometimes things
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 and it seems like
never will, so it starts
making sense to just
this and close our eyes and
smile a
this feels impossible. we
do things we don't want
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
that
person born into
bodies, and that this is
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
beautiful thing.
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 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 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
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 around and
everybody just
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
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
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us
laughing and grabbing poems out
of
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back
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
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 are praying
to
want. fading. fading.
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
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.
the being pushes
dust wood so of quickly and
how the end it will all story
these some rock glue
facts the, the and keep on
themselves while we the we changing
us how the sun is piece of it
and we. we don't know if
things but. okay because
caring have feel sun is on our
arm and our blood is and
going, the wind keeps trees we
keep an instant we are able
for what it every person how
the around.
turning by floorboards
pushes bits why wood is so
resonant,
without a, a sentence rock glue,
one after the opinions and
facts falling into and the
hugs, paints pretending
circles themselves voices from
the we can't help moment
us, landing this piece of
it on our
somehow. don't because caring
that would happy or feel more
silence and quiet now. a
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
make us
make
from
scratching
a quote out of context
leave the
though we
other
below
care
even though
should
we care. and everything
so
happen close our eyes for
, that it warm enough.
breathe
in feel this
what the panels
every
the desk the wires
faster. with fewer, a
conversation going the conversation
going on outside going on
conversation outside do we aren't
every repetition getting.
our
accurate, the do on outside
becoming heated while becoming
heated while outside becoming
more
repetition to pretend we best to
pretend little more mistakes a
little, repetition getting we
. every repetition
getting
. a little faster and with
little, every repetition
getting, faster and with fewer
mistakes. little faster and with
fewer mistakes. the
conversation faster
faster on heated. the
conversation going with fewer and
with
accurate little getting a little
more accurate. every
repetition getting more a little
faster and with becoming going
on we heated
becoming we do our best to pretend
we while we becoming
heated do our repetition
getting a we
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not
anything in particular or
convince anyone of
prefering to let
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
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
happening. the softmurmers not
even
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
echoed until they
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular
melodies,
tinkling or rubbing
right back,
so loudly with the
flickerings or uncharged
water. how's this different?
asking
and
were
or
thismomentingly
casting
expected somehow
reflects
walls and the
surface, papers
months before piled
so
and blindly drawn
that means, whatever those
meaning.
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.