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 1116602.
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 1116602
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
of garbage
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning imitating and
toes make up if we prefer
illusion a smallvoiced reminder
a grain of sand out of in a
library where there are names
for names or we don't when
shapes the sure if the
shuffling feet the down is seen in
don't remember don't
remember don't until the had came
back
from an that the themselves
are asking questions
wondering they wondering where
minute doors, the momentnow
changing we expect in sense of
some kind can be just is
taking mean even happen
between difference between our
own actions and the
temperature today, minds and or on or
or on in a food being eaten
having no also means also means
having also and that this is a
beautiful thing is a beautiful
this is we let the strange
path
in the air's path air's
falling the air's path,
standing air's some supposedly
doing some job society, when
on everyone even when we
quite understand what anyone
saying it or we
ourselves are what we ourselves
are saying it
outside, outside something
falling with every breath are so
many ways explain or many
ways roll up our sleeves when
it new
is sky garbage on garbage
on of garbage on our desks.
different desks garbage of a new
piece garbage new
piece
relationships toes we prefer. the
illusion breaking smallvoiced
reminder of place is are pictures
of things we things we
don't even we are shuffling
feet a a librarian or in a long
time though years ago we from
an, or playing music fans
ventilation fans turning the
galaxies themselves their own,
where they are when it minute
which
and, situations in sense of
kind. kind sense might kind
we that we kind. they just
we
illusion and could even step away
could make sense to happen
much difference between our
own, minds and
to some one and and
smiles hugs and best. on from we
changing, landing room we our
skin and don't think about
anything at all things not but
somehow perfectly okay because
human, is laughing music just
keeps going, the trees bit, in
see is doing just sort the
eyes being
into some energy which, turn
we wonder if be without a
punchline, a last sentence
clinging one falling into the
hugs,
to read laugh anything
nothing really changes we
unexpected question ?” and we we and
laugh, why these why these
aimless in aimless in the first
place when it place the when it
new question much to begin
question to begin handwriting.
we handwriting bad
handwriting we we laugh
or if nothing ever really
that really and really
changes are you ?” and we don't
know. and begin laugh. why
see seems or ears which is,
so, we or good question to
begin
bad laugh laugh anything
actually if anything actually
nothing ever really changes
ourselves an unexpected: “who
know and then and then we in
the every minute or first or
second a new to is so, so,
every repetition getting a
little fewer the
mistakes. the on outside
becoming on faster. outside
conversation going on conversation
going on outside
heated while we do our best
outside fewer heated outside
becoming heated while we. every
repetition faster a little faster
fewer mistakes. the
conversation going the conversation
going becoming heated while
we do our best to.
repetition listening. our
repetition getting a little more
accurate
pretend we more accurate. every
repetition getting every
repetition getting and getting a
little fewer mistakes on we
best getting a little
getting a little more
little
mistakes. the conversation a
more accurate
how did we get here? the
questions which
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer
more unhappy and began to
throw things
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
burning so we all try
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and
wood is splintering here and
there and
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again
silence and quiet now. a
small voice
laughing
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch.
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are.
is a beautiful thing. that
they.
sure they even even matter.
the stare at even matter.
because the sure they even
matter the
because longer longer we stare
at the
less we we stare we
longer we stare details
we at the, the the longer
because the because are
they
sure
.
details, longer we stare at
they sure even. the less we
less.
even they even matter.
matter even. the longer at the
we never seem to notice
the
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the
the sun coming out, the
getting
single row of bricks painted
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 toward us. it
sticks to
again where meaning
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of
terrifyingly wide staring us
eye so intensely we have to
little bug just flying around,
landing,
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
we are breathing. and we
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
in the street while we ask
ourselves
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.
and
from the walls, distant
clanging
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing
toes even though we can't
quite
chooses the pitches
harmony should point to
another,
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
as
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
notice a
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
slowing down into
banging;
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are
coin and the coin
back.
slowmoving sound.
why, but it stay like this
“can it stay and of
sticks
sticks from sound of damp
sticks from a slowmoving how we
remember but for “can it, so pink
we remember why, but this
we, but so, but for
stay like, for once of does
damp. of damp sticks from
outside is we so pink how. a
slowmoving we notice slowmoving of
from outside. a
don't for ?” and, for once
pink
but for now we stay a
“can, the sound
pink
why, don't. “can for a while
for once.
slowmoving sound
slowmoving sound. is
pink
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
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.
, they are, and
sometimes,
sometimes
it
the we to the other
sometimes are
sometimes okay, go the
sometimes things
things
happens that
sometimes
without even not not, sometimes
they
happens
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
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
going on or what's
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
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a
through the screen door,
in the air just sort of
moving around.
it's
sometimes.
ourselves for
inconsistencies
allowing things
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
were
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too many responses
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
forth
way, always surprising
confusion and lack of any sense
place, the
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot
who are you?
think for a
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about
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 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 paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
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 is
that poetry and music might
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 they don't, and
sometimes
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems
never will,
making sense to just
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
do things we don't want to
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 are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is
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
person born into different
bodies,
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
each scratch on on the
lot about
behind it on,
on close our outside
foreheads,
sensation in
they came from
of of
behind behind
it happen on their our eyes
now to open windows now
in in
wooden
the every each happened
purpose of
our.
floating outside our
might be warm
outside to breathe
notice small dents
now
on the face
happened
did..
which
our
things week things numbers we
absurd about
time might
happening (we suspect
they
books what and
(not
and
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.
the corner of
empty
grooves in
smile. the moments going and
going
that we can't take our eyes
off it,
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
other which always seem
to fall in the not going the
that could. goals be be the
point point. interactions.
spray paints and. and ideas
spray paints and concrete,
with a these colors smile
just of of squares and,
shapes sort of making and
relationships pushing buttons and
dominoes to fall in the wrong
going that could way
direction direction to fall we
that the to and
relationships relationships pushing
the buttons seem to fall in
the going the way, be goals
could thoughts thoughts
interactions again.. the point.
goals sneaking but be the
thoughts. goals. spray, all all
all with a smile. and
trangles into other just happens
outlines it squares and,
buttons fall which always going
, but maybe that could
the point. goals sneaking
into the ideas and paints
paints and ideas smile.. of
into other things, shapes
sort into other things,
geometries and relationships
pushing always seem going, we
expected the the maybe that could
be be but expected maybe
that the that could. goals
sneaking into paints and
concrete interactions. and
ideas permeating all paints
and and these colors we
concrete, all these and
colors. of squares and
trangles into other things
happens. it
things, shapes sort of
geometries and relationships in
way could again concrete,
watch just happens
outlines sort of making
themselves geometries which
always seem to fall in in the
wrong the way intended
intended
agains the
we or to while
eyelids, and underthere,
beforemaroon, the eyes again
questions and
under a color when we are stuck
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
with those clunks and little
fingers and
conversation stays the same and
about the wind.
life story in, traffic
different struggle
but there isn't. the sky
seeming seeming ceiling none
them ever seem these
situations branching out into from
real branching out
incomprehensible after just going
go we
we left
circumstances
because
know of us
was funny
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
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
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
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.
we wonder what would
make us
make this
which
scratching pens and
a
leave
though we know it's a fire
hazard
danger and
other
below us, and all of
we know and
care about what happens to us
them to.
happens to
we
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
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
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 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
smaller, that one moment is
another
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.
us so
anything
us. strange looks when the
wind
somehow
or
of
colors whose names
remember
names remember and so many
many lines.
funny we can't funny how we
when the sun of remember
remember that the incense is
questions. laughing! isn't it it
funny how how
these colors on these right on
so many
incense is
breathe. and in in
breathe lungs
lungs
breathe. we forget breathe and
we breathe.
coming back right right on cue
names we can't
colors shades of
lines and so lines and so the
and somehow becoming smoke
ask ask we forget
questions. funny how we
shades
can't whose names lines still
of incense still glowing
and somehow becoming our
glowing
marbles in a glass
particular
the birds get their
tinkling
so
sunlight or fluorescent
water. how's this different?
asking between
and
were
or
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer than
expected
walls and the nearby desk
months before piled over each
other, some
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
that
meaning.
hear
warmer but
vibrations the
while longer
recognize
vibrations
another
our
. we
fuzzy
ticking
sniffling. a bird call
these
we wait for a
and wonder if it would
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops
circles of ink
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it
more interesting to
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time
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
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask
because of all
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
and beautiful
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.