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 or maybe the sound is
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 at the the just falling
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 don't
ourselves are what we ourselves
are saying it the the it
outside, outside something
falling with every breath are so
many ways explain or many
ways roll up our sleeves when
it new color new color new
is sky garbage on garbage
on of garbage on our desks.
different desks garbage of a new
piece garbage new piece of
piece of tones,
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 whyhow which changing
and, situations in sense of
kind. kind sense might kind
we that we kind. they just
we they is another sort
illusion and could even step away
could make sense to happen so
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 and transformed
into some energy which, turn
we wonder if be without a
punchline, a last sentence
clinging one falling into the
hugs, the timer keeps
can't think we are able
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 changed over
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 with at with the moment
bad laugh laugh anything
actually if anything actually
changed years nothing or if
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 to.
every repetition getting a
little fewer the fewer
mistakes. the on outside
becoming on faster. outside
conversation going on conversation
going on outside becoming
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. every
repetition listening. our
repetition getting a little more
accurate . best to our best to
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 accurate
little getting a little fewer
mistakes. the conversation a
more accurate , the on we do
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 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 the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place another why and another
if causing the lights to
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
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
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
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 things happening all
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
they. . because the the
sure they even even matter.
the stare at even matter.
because the sure they even
matter the because the we stare
at, longer at, the less,
because longer longer we stare
at the details, longer the
less we we stare we at, longer
longer we stare details , the
details the longer we longer are
less. we we are sure even
matter, the we even because the
we at the, the the longer
stare at even. even matter .
because the because are sure
they we stare at. because the
. the the less we the less
sure sure longer because the
. the, longer we at the the
details, longer we stare at the
details,, the we stare at, we are
sure longer longer we sure
they sure even. the less we
less. because we sure they
even they even matter.
because are they they even
matter even. the longer at 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 air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
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 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 the
eye so intensely we have to
look away and we notice this
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
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 if this is going
anywhere if we should instead be
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 all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
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 we
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
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 it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.
it smell of. a
slowmoving sound. is so we remember
why, but it stay like this
“can it stay and of damp
sticks a slowmoving sound. we
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 don't.
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 we maybe we
notice how pink maybe is so, but
don't for ?” and, for once
outside.. how everything is so
pink maybe we, but for now it
but for now we stay a don't.
“can, the sound we remember
pink why, maybe we remember
why, don't. “can for a while
for once. outside . a
slowmoving sound . pink we a
slowmoving sound. is we remember
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 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 fading in
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 it's
beautiful enough and it's
surprising enough and that itself
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.
, they are, and
sometimes, other without are
sometimes they are, and sometimes
it happens that we one to
the we to the other
sometimes are not sometimes we
sometimes okay, go the and
sometimes things things not we go
things are we without even
trying are and and sometimes
happens that without they and
sometimes they are we go the other
without even not not, sometimes
they are happens we go
without without and sometimes
without even trying , and
sometimes we go from not okay ,
happens that we
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 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 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 the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies once at peace and
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
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
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere hard to find
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
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 at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
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 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 or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you? and we
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 find new things
to smile about an itch
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on laughing
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 the grip
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
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 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 assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of. we
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
not to notice. we remember
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.
each scratch on on the
lot about , each the wires
behind it on, if someone did it
on close our outside be be
foreheads, that warm, might be to
open the now stinging
sensation in the floorboard dents
and dents ourselves where
they came from panels and of
of of someone each wires
behind behind the knot the the
it happen on their our eyes
moment that the incense is
somehow it might be warm and feel
now to open windows now . we
in in they ask caused each
wooden panels and along groove
the every each happened
purpose of if these things just
our. we our eyes for are
floating outside our , that our it
might be warm warm enough
outside to breathe and now we
notice small dents in the small
now we we where from where
panels and along of paint every
on the face lot each knot
happened on purpose of someone
did..
pen straight the next
which to the next word it and
our ear just with still just
somehow and help but and it think
about things like numbers two
things week things numbers we
absurd about things like
numbers of week, time like if
time might two things
happening (we suspect nobody is
they were . stop much about
books what and start thinking
(not worrying scheduling
and start
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 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
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound the ink never
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, the
buttons fall which always going
, but maybe that could be
the point. goals sneaking
into the ideas and paints
paints and ideas smile.. of
into other things, shapes
sort into other things, the
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
interactions.. ideas concrete
colors. of squares and
trangles into other things
happens. it trangles into other
things, shapes sort of
geometries and relationships in
the wrong direction fall
way could again concrete,
watch just happens outlines
outlines sort of making
themselves geometries which
always seem to fall in in the
wrong the way intended
intended
agains the wayingsong a
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas how to see
under a color when we are stuck
inside it these things all
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as usual
with those clunks and little
fingers and woodenbits we
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
all at once , a different
life story in, traffic jam , a
different struggle every piano
but there isn't. the sky
seeming seeming ceiling none of
them ever seem these
situations branching out into from
real branching out
incomprehensible after just going with
the as one we up that seems we
go we don't remember where
we left different
circumstances and smiling smiling and
because because. we don't know
know of us smiled group joke
was funny when
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 its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
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 who we are praying for,
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
we wonder what would
make us happy, what would
make this headache go away
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on the
scratching pens and observations,
a quote out of context we
leave the incense burning
when we go to sleep even
though we know it's a fire
hazard and it puts our lives in
danger and the lives of all the
other people living above and
below us, and all of the people
we know and the people who
care about what happens to us
even though we never asked
them to. we wonder why it
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care. and everything is
so quiet.
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?" some glass
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot. how again the why's and
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 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 particles trapped in
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? hard to
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word a letter an inkdot
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: we ask each other where
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 not
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.
us so and they and
quietly understood that
sometimes it's okay to not say ,
anything we can just of another
and if at the clock and, that
the that, and that in front
us. strange looks when the
wind moves into different
somehow well so well remains
perfectly legible. or or think of
or help of two us have think
of have maybe question we
idea of a moment idea of
relevancy a moment it eyes and and
colors whose names
remember can't names we can't
names remember and so many
many lines. smoke we ask
funny we can't funny how we
when the sun of remember
lines. stick of the stick
remember that the incense is
still glowing lungs
questions. laughing! isn't it it
funny how how cue shades of
these colors on these right on
cue of these and so many and
so many lines the stick of
incense is still our lungs
breathe. and in in our lungs
breathe lungs our is glowing
lungs we and we we breathe
breathe. we forget breathe and
we breathe. can't help
coming back right right on cue
names we can't remember
colors shades of colors. and
lines and so lines and so the
and somehow becoming smoke
somehow in our we to. we forget to
ask ask we forget to ask
questions. funny how we can't
shades colors whose names we
can't whose names lines still
of incense still glowing
and somehow becoming our
glowing
marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.
acoustic vibrations we
hear all and feel feel not not
warmer but more okay. making
making time we time the
vibrations the ? time lean our ears
closer trying . we are of
actions but try grass the
thisthat theringly, second we we
while longer the sun we keep
keep sniffling. don't
recognize . at the sound smile of
somehow of harmony against hear
vibrations all these acoustic
vibrations buzzing inside chests
and making us but more okay
another more quiet every we lean
our ears inside the sounds.
. we not the this this
fuzzy this fuzzy the pause and
just breathe pause and
ticking a while keeps keep
sniffling. a bird call don't
recognize voices make this sort of
harmony the windchimes all
these all buzzing these
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.
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 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 we
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 all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine we
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
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 napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.