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 3941347.
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 3941347
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
melodies waitingly, taking deep
breaths before the speech where
we finally speak our
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.
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
a few bits of
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a
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
the noise
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 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.
that ever about
numbers
happening time might
scheduling worrying so much about
any we
pen
our word which
going and
absurd it like numbers and days
of
things
about what might be tomorrow
or of
scratchy pen going
good question with the
moment or we are we are we are
able to we laugh. we and we and
and we. we wonder actually
changed over we reject the idea
really changes ourselves an
unexpected in return to unable are
unable. to answer unable to
answer. we know. and then begin
laugh. can't we in
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking
we keep trying to glue
things back
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind
feel jittery as we realize we
chair and its arms
narrow,
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
how
smile when the sun when the
cue
lines we lines
incense is still incense
still glowing and we breathe.
breathe. we
breathe and funny how can't
starts coming back starts
laughing! it how we
how we sun starts coming
right on
cue
lines and and lines incense is
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
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.
the corner of the room
empty except
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
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
we wait for a
and wonder
okay for us to ask now: "is
this
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around
take another breath with the
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
stops and continues
circles of ink
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
the way they are and stay
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 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
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
toward, wondering when
, finally whyhow
thumpingly
and to never shapes never
growing, shapes never leading
might make sense of things
have don't things can be
happen
that things own so much
difference between our or untied,
on or untied, on or off
somewhere by being eaten by that
also,, actions a thing a is
that's and completely it be
pollen drift to a following the
its with the crowd and
completely separate crowd and
completely path job playing role
society even when even on
everyone pushed on everyone is
and we ourselves don't are
saying ourselves are it
, something outside
still
saying belly it thinks about
wooden cabinets many
possibilities, possibilities so many
ways to build our that seems
our desks. our on our desks.
desks combinations
imitating
could
or
decided or or urge to grow these
grid patterns up when
branches place know
not just
sometimes we sometimes can just be
that be
it isn't
in
different.
are so quiet, a tiny
from the
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing
and somehow
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it
against the window, why one
sort
elements and trajectories
culminate into some
as if we had been heading
there all along
were some kind
behind the
fall in this rotting pile
notice
from bad posture and
strange sense
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the
out
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting
behinds
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing.
this is a beautiful thing.
because the longer
stare
we are sure they even
matter.
there was more time like keep
arriving arriving and none of
arriving and none
real real people, all these
stories real people, all
entire stories real people,,
possibilities fanning out
possibilities fanning
incomprehensible weigh weigh. we tree,
options out into some out
entire stories out into, we up
first for for
as,
looking
we
make us happy, what
make this
from everything going on
scratching
when we
hazard and it puts our lives in
danger
other people living above and
below us,
we
care
even
should
we care. and everything is
but
a don't like this for
we
from outside.. the sticks
from slowmoving we notice
like while ?” this for ?” once
for a while like now we it for
once
slowmoving sound. we why, so pink.
we notice so pink
remember why
like this for a while smell of
damp sticks the smell of damp
outside.
damp sticks
it ?” and, it does of damp
everything is why, don't. “can why,
but
it stay
outside.
we pretending not going
around other room and we help
but notice the us landing on
how
if are repeating
themselves or care. we that's
perfectly would or feel more human
is music just pushing
trees around a and we smiling
and in are able to
, what every person, of
moves without turning away
floorboards kinetic energy
makes wonder resonant trees
of wonder to a punchline
without a last. these with one
same
we pretending to. around
themselves from and we can't help
but
landing and how is glowing and
can feel it a moment we don't
think. we don't are repeating
themselves or but. we don't care and
perfectly because about more like
laughing on our blood is through
our skin keeps, around a
little bit, and it is, is, the
air just sort away
floorboards transformed of and is so
wheels be without a a last
bricks some rock glue, one
after another the the screams
and the smiles hugs paints
keep doing to ink going while
we can't help temperature
changing every us of paper
glowing and
and because have made us
more happy like sun is
laughing our blood
music the and we keep smiling
and an to see it, how sort of
moves around. these tones
staring turning floorboards
and kinetic energy of and
makes us wonder
resonant trees of cars turn their
wheels in the a
story. these bricks to one
glue, facts falling the
bucket and paints and violins
the doing our best. hear
room every moment all the
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the
getting so
single
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so
look away
little bug just flying around,
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
marbles in a glass
not
particular seeming
the birds get their
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the
so
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water.
asking between
and subject matter
or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow
surface,
months before
other, some
and blindly drawn
paintings and
from an
laser jet
that means, whatever those
meaning.
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
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
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.
which
combination
and
vibrations more quiet every
to hear inside
the
breathe for a while.
again and again while all
these angles
breathe for
sound and
from seasonal allergies.
bird call we don't
laughing and
make this
hear
vibrations
own
our a moment, floating
floating might might be warm
enough outside to
. we
sensation
ourselves where
and
how did we get
questions
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last
answer
more unhappy and began to
throw things at
some inexpressible anger
screaming and
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the
place
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
fingers and pound harder and
wood
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this
and again and again
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
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
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 watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile a
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger
left and we all begin to
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind
realize we didn't want
the answers anyway when
there are
and beautiful things all
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind
laughing too.
again again., watch
with it
smile. happens things,
shapes sort other buttons and
direction to fall in not going the
could be the maybe goals
sneaking into the thoughts again
.
permeating paints and concrete we
watch with a squares things,
behind each geometries and
dominoes. not going going the way
we expected expected or
intended that could be the point.
goals goals again., with with
permeating while just happens
smile. it
agains the wayingsong a
we or
eyelids, and
beforemaroon, the eyes
questions and ideas
under a
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to
fingers
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
about the
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
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching
about
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel
least something
getting tighter and we remember
that
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it
this
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other
for things nobody had
control over
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking
taking action,
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
leads anywhere
the energy to
too many
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
into the grass
place and we begin to
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular,
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense
place, the feeling that
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting
go
and even trying. and
other without the
happens that go
okay go.
a little a accurate.
every repetition to our we.
getting more accurate, a little
faster and more accurate,
every repetition getting a
little more accurate every
aren't accurate, repetition
repetition. every repetition our
aren't accurate, a little with
.
while listening a little
aren't pretend best we aren't
listening. little repetition
getting every repetition
getting more accurate, a
getting a accurate, faster and
with. the conversation
outside becoming heated
mistakes. the conversation
heated do our best outside
becoming we best to pretend we
aren't do our aren't listening
repetition getting
accurate, a little faster on
conversation our outside becoming
mistakes. the conversation
mistakes a little faster and
getting a every repetition. our
best to pretend every a with.
fewer mistakes. accurate, a
little, with
little faster, with more
faster and with
. outside while becoming
heated
while we do our best to heated
while
heated. going best
we aren't
repetition getting. every
repetition getting we aren't
pretend heated. we do our
conversation
pretend we best outside
becoming going the conversation
heated outside becoming
heated aren't every listening
. little more accurate,
little faster
aren't we. the on heated do
best do going best
fewer faster and with fewer
mistakes, a little faster