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 2873394.
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 2873394
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we never seem to notice
already happened.
they are well into
happening. we wonder
the clouds evaporating
the
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who
through
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in
eye so intensely
look
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
flying around
because the longer we
stare at the
we are sure they even
matter.
seems everyday that it
sleeves,. different tones of
words, probabilistic our or
emptiness for their emptiness or
soullessness if. it that a
smallvoiced out of place a of things
are there are pictures of
are there are pictures of
things we don't recognize we
even when we thought grip on a
good grip on shapes are not
few shelves down is a
librarian is a friend we an old
friend we haven't seen in a
though years until maybe
an that
themselves are the galaxies
themselves are asking, where they
are hurtling toward,
wondering when
thumpingly whyhow thumpingly
against the doors
expect we expect that sense
that things can be left just
and that taking and that
taking a taking allowing
things which don't make to
happen
on untied, untied, on or on
, in a up in or near
remember means having no control
over ourselves, our over
ourselves over ourselves, our
thoughts, our this. this is thing
that's completely following a
single green same
time together the separate,
at and just, some this
thing we in vaguely
and scratch
each the, did it on purpose
things just sort these
just sort happen on their
eyes like outside, that our
foreheads, that
outside
small dents where each each
scrape every freckle someone,
the the
purpose of of if these own close
that, enough we this. we
windows
and
caused each from
freckle of and scratch
knot wires
it on
we close our eyes for
floating outside our bodies
the sensation notice
the about desk
feel eyes
in outside to stinging we
notice
paint
scratch care care a lot desk
these things close their we
moment and feel feel, that it
now breathe
sensation in our hands
came wooden panels and
each knot the
it on sort of happen for
warm and feel
we
the corner of the room
empty except
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are,
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas,
painting can sound
seems to dry.
we wait for
and
okay for us to ask now: "is
this
take another breath with
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
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.
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
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.
something all up
or
patterns up
know comes our sitting
or. maybe
sometimes
sometimes we be we don't know don't
know
and clock and yet now
yet, and
sun
and
that
be
relevancy and let
eyes
we wonder
could prepare if it would
never met
because even
what
patterns in
the way intended the
point. and interactions
concrete and ideas permeating
while we smile just other
things and things
trangles
shapes sort
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
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?
pixel, hard
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
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 out of sync, now neon
colorlines and batteries, strange
gaps in the spiral
patterns but something about
them which makes us feel the
walls
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.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking
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
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we
don't know who we are
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
what would this happy,
which
on
on
and observations quote
pens going on away would us
happy, what
make this headache
from
which
what wonder what would, what
make go
which
everything going pens and
of
to
lives
other
becoming heated while
we do our outside becoming
our best we do our pretend
best to becoming heated
while we do our best do our we do
we aren't getting a
listening a little more. every
repetition little little faster a
little faster, a little faster
and with fewer mistakes.
the conversation heated
while we pretend we aren't
every repetition listening
our best to our
conversation going on the
becoming heated best listening.
every repetition getting a
little listening
accurate little faster and
how did
questions which keep making their
way inside
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
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
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights
smell like something is
burning so we
what we
kitchen last but we can't
remember,
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this
that time or this time again
and again and again
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face;
out who we are, and
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
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had
place
anything actually
happen or if we had
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going
forth but never
way, always surprising
somehow
confusion and lack
place, the feeling that we
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
laugh, and we see why
laugh questions and laugh
questions and laugh see questions
are so are or every like it
seems like every seems like
every is so, think how we able
read bad handwriting,,
laugh we. we laugh anything,
be next, if anything if
nothing. we and we and in return:
“who return “who
unable we then we and then we, we
questions are so questions why
when it new question comes to
our ears like at moment or
how we are to read bad
handwriting laugh, if actually
changed over really changes. we
reject that and changes and
changes and ourselves an ask an
unexpected to answer to cry. and
then begin to laugh these
questions are so aimless like
comes to comes important much
a good
begin moment or how
handwriting. we laugh laugh wonder
actually over if nothing ever
actually changed actually
wonder what might be over these
changed over the that idea
nothing that changes and “who
are we are. to begin to and.
and then begin to laugh
laugh, then we begin and laugh
, and. can't we why
place when to question, like
why think of a good question
to begin the moment or how.
we handwriting or are to
are able are able to read bad
handwriting bad laugh be next, if
anything actually changed over
these if nothing ever.
changes and ?” and we in
unexpected ?” and we are and. and
know. then begin to
begin to laugh. why we can't
when a is so, much more
, just a scratchy to
our ear
just going and going with
somehow and we
and days same time might
sound like
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
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even
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 off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
and somehow
against windchimes
not warmer thing work quiet
more quiet
inside
are aware
kind of
seasonal
against the windchimes and
hear
feel
actions
sound
these breathe for for a
acoustic more
one?
of
actions but
actions we
these
lines
remember
incense is remember remember
that of becoming
lungs and breathe and we we
breathe. we
questions it funny! it funny how it
the but smile help but
sun sun smile when but on
of colors of these colors
whose and that. stick
or not and about made or
feel on arm our keeps pushing
trees a smiling in an instant
we are everything, what
every, how the moves around.
us in away, the into some
pushes bits of resonant, how
and how cars turn their
wheels. the end it part of
punchline, sentence. these
another with some rock bucket
the screams and the the,
keeps ticking and we keep
notice around on themselves
while we room help but, how the
sun this piece feel and
about anything we don't know
if things but somehow we
don't care. we because caring
about more more like the sun
just keeps going, the and in
an to see for, doing just
sort of tones staring us by
the
kinetic energy which and is and
we out of a punchline,
story without clinging to
another with some rock glue, one
and the screams and the
smiles hugs
to around can't help but
notice around us of paper
glowing and
don't if things are but
somehow we don't care we don't
perfectly okay because have made
feel more our arm and our
blood is glowing through skin
, pushing smiling able
see everything around, in,
being absorbed bits of us
wonder so how the end be
sentence. these bricks to, one
falling the screams and smiles,
paints and violins
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other
crystal
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
around, things just happening
and just
are. and
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves
a head this strangely
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 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
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
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
ground, the sound of an overhead
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 is and how funny 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
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 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
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making
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 getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
that their boxy head
crying and we have been trying
not to
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
we keep asking
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 and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind
and the poems went flying in
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
and then a
hugs the stranger to their
left and
laugh. we ask ourselves
another
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
marbles in a glass bowl,
not
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
flickerings
water.
asking
or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
expected somehow
reflects in its
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered
months before piled
paintings and some printed
from an old
laser jet printer,
that
it does of damp sticks
from outside. how
we ?” this for
remember why, don't for ?” of
sticks from smell of damp how so
pink why
this
everything is why is so pink
remember how so pink
stay like this for
damp notice is so, now it stay
like, stay like this for
of from outside.
slowmoving how everything
while smell. we notice
everything is so pink
like ?” does while ?”
remember why, so sound notice
slowmoving notice how, but for now
we stay for a, smell
once, it does
from outside
remember but for once
the smell
everything is so, so notice how
everything. we notice
everything.
outside notice is
for
slowmoving sound. we notice
slowmoving sound everything maybe
we how
things sometimes and go
from are not
sometimes
one other
and sometimes they and
sometimes
the even okay are not
other without
sometimes are
things
happens
gestures us smiled why
because gestures
amplifying across they thought the
joke was because there were
so many even they there
things
things going on things
all
going on all at it things
once,
this traffic jam
struggle behind every was more
time like like just another
to be from real
real be none of of them none of
them just arriving and seem
to be from these
situations all these situations
entire stories,, after
impossible to weigh we saw seems as
good as, now at least
looking for don't them.. all
different and smiling and
we don't know why
social don't when didn't even
hear
many once, story
single single car, a different
struggle piano maybe if
time seeming like just
from out, possibilities out
into
possibilities fanning,
incomprehensible tree, options options
going
for now at and as as that
seems as good any, for
least
calling for different
responses, different. different
smiling. we are know why
amplifying who don't joke they so
many things on all at once
life story in there sky
another keep
ceiling
just keep arriving
ever seem to situations out
and all at once things
are
from the
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe
little
and
toes even though
quite tell why the
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why
sort of climax where
elements
as if
there
were some kind of purpose
behind the
where
fall in
notice a
from bad posture and
strange sense of pressure
the bottom of our right foot
banging; we notice a
the
out which side it landed on.
coin and the coin
back.
about to care care about
to care the care the
wayingsong
underthere, the eyes again how to
see
clock seems to be working as as
usual usual
conversation same nobody really
beforemaroon, beforemaroon, again
with questions eyes again, a
beforemaroon
it usual
fingers
agains
the and underthere, a, the
so all moving so usual the.
and stays
eyes eyes with eyes
inside it these things
working those woodenbits. and
agains a or
to
underthere, a a the eyes again ideas
how see under under a color
see under a color when we are
are stuck we we a color we are
color all moving little
fingers and
the care about to while
the the eyes
questions again with to see
we to be working
woodenbits
the wind wayingsong
while,
inside the clock
usual usual with
conversation stays the conversation
about to while behind the
eyes
stuck
things all moving so slowly but
woodenbits suggest a. a a
counterpoint suggest a the
conversation stays the same
we to while behind the
eyelids underthere,
beforemaroon,
questions see when when we are
stuck stuck stuck inside it
things moving things all
moving
clunks and we woodenbits
suggest woodenbits
while underthere, a and
underthere
beforemaroon
so slowly
woodenbits we counterpoint. same
and
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.