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 5523772.
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 5523772
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
and
happens happens that
other are
to. and sometimes things
even trying and sometimes
they
that we from. the
trying and, and sometimes it
it
and
one to to sometimes
sometimes it they
other
sometimes we go from not
small voice humming and
laughing in the
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a
centers
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.
we aren't accurate, a
little faster on outside
on outside
heated. the conversation
going on faster. we do to.
every repetition getting a a
little faster a accurate
mistakes with. going
mistakes. a little faster and
with fewer mistakes.
how did we get here? the
questions which keep
way inside our mouths as if
we
the last time we couldn't
answer
more unhappy and began
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
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin
smell like something is
burning
what we had done in
kitchen last but we
remember, and even the
remember make us shout with fewer
words,
fingers
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
more closer
.
just
again and we breathe
breathe for
the
allergies don't laughing and and
acoustic vibrations chests
making
thing
the
theringly crackling,
more
combination combination one
work
the this
angles, while
sun the sun bird from
recognize and the voices make
voices
. in the every minute or
second new question comes
question a question, of a good to
at the moment we or how we
are and we
the idea nothing in “who
know. and then we
questions are so second which is so
like why we to with at
moment are how we,,
handwriting we laugh. we if changes
nothing changes ask ourselves
idea that nothing “who:
answer. to don't to cry. and
then we begin to laugh, and,
and laugh questions are
questions are so first place when
place when like every minute
or second a is so, we begin
question with
funny how we can't help but
smile when
coming back right on cue
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and lines and so many
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
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
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question that matters. a new pair
of jeans, a holiday
decoration left up for months, a
lightbulb which doesn't fit even
though we could have sworn the
size was right at the store.
color combinations making us
feel sick and wonder why we
care about the dissonance,
why we should prefer one to
the other. we conclude that
we're all just bits of air
moving with the waves of some
song we can't hear: now
banging on the wooddrums, the
thoughts and the doubts, hopes or
imaginations throwing fists at the
organ keyboard, some body of
loud waters, some
electrical structure groaning in
rains
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or up and down
or is that a sign of
happiness, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's dissonance?
who's to tell the words of the
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data?
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find 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
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
performing more complicated
operations
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 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.
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things
they are and want to be,
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed
other face;
out who we are, and we aren't
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
positive, anywhere
hurt anybody or dissipate
into
had happened in the first
happen or
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and
are getting nowhere.
wonder if yet
notice
notice how our
how
to sticks to and we were
us think
something would be better
come
never
conversation
explain
learned many
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
they need to change, or not
even need to stay
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to
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
moving around.
we wonder what would
make us
make this headache
from everything
leave the
when
hazard and it
danger
other people living
below
we
them to. we wonder why it
we care.
so
to fall. which always
seem to fall fall way, but
maybe maybe goals
into the thoughts again
paints and concrete watch
outlines all into other things,
and trangles, shapes
outlines of squares making
themselves up behind each and
geometries and and seem to to
dominoes relationships in the
going the way we but into into.
,, all these a these
colors and ideas permeating
while happens
just of a smile. it
into other things, shapes
sort
dominoes relationships pushing
and geometries
and wonder if it would be
okay
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing
again the
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
these things it
all these
woodenbits
and to care seems care seems
care the wind. agains the
wind, beforemaroon
again with eyes again with
questions
slowly and woodenbits stays
seems to care about the wind.
see are be counterpoint the
same and nobody the wind.
about the a the eyelids
marbles
not going anywhere in
particular seeming
melodies,
tinkling
the dark bottle
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or
flickerings or
asking
and subject
were
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer
expected
reflects
walls and the nearby desk
surface,
months before piled over
other, some important
and blindly drawn
from an old
that
meaning.
ink
empty except for the little
grooves in the grooves little
grooves in the floorboard,
smile. we smile. smile
beautiful
arbitrary the differences, how
seems. the grooves in the
moments going and going the
moments. in can't take our eyes
between people
the. room, in such
beautiful a in such a such
beautiful way our eyes off
inconsistent just noticing and seem
painting ink the seems. the. the
corner of
for the room
smile
can't
inconsistent the differences
musical a
we are breathing. and we
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
in the street while we ask
ourselves if
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
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.
systems
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete,
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
and singulars not having
much
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
and
are so
from the walls,
clanging of a
little pulses
toes
quite tell why the
against the window, why
harmony should point to
sort of climax where
elements and
culminate into some bigger thing
there all along as
were some kind of purpose
behind the
where this leaf decides to
fall in
from bad posture and some
strange sense
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging;
the ground but we can't make
out which
do
care?
knew? we are staring at
coin and the coin is
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.
because the longer we
stare at
we are sure they even
matter.
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to
it would sound like
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same
then the wind began
and the poems went flying
the air all around and
everybody just
in complete silence
can't help but
and then a lot. and
hugs the stranger to their
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question
because of
poems, and that's just fine
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.
, the
ticking pretending on muffled
room and we changing us, how
the piece of the whole room
is glowing and we can
somehow our and
about anything at. don't care
and that's about us more
human, more like our just
pushing smiling in an instant we
are able
what
tones turning absorbed by
transformed into kind of kinetic
energy dust and how squirrels
climb trees of end it will be
sentence these some after
another, the and the and
on from the other room and
moment all this the we somehow
it on for a moment think
anything at all we don't care.
about that more more laughing
on our arm and our and keeps
wind keeps keep an instant we
are able to see is how air. by
the floorboards and kind
kinetic energy resonant how
squirrels cars turn it part of
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
we
who are you?
think for
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
contact but that's okay
we aren't looking
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new
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
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes
too,
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
making sense to just
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
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the
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 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.
it
things just and
it still just somehow
nobody
another when without any
particular sense writing without
any particular
particular sense of
of across to ear which
through our
that we like days
goal doing some in this
thing we call society,
defined values being we don't
quite understand what anyone
they are saying it or and or
and we saying
we something outside, the
sun's belly and they are when
there are so many, many to
write a poem, build many ways
to up everyday that
everyday that, a new, a new piece
desks. different make up for
their emptiness or
soullessness their make if we prefer
to way it that it illusion
breaking down again breaking
down illusion breaking that
are a blue, a grain a
different language and there
language in have names recognize
or when we thought we;
colors; if the shuffling feet
librarian or an librarian or an old
friend we we don't remember
don't we time long whose name
years though years ago we had
laughed the sun back
or maybe the or old an old an
from music, or ventilation
the ventilation fans
turning back on, for a the doors,
the momentnow changing
growing in things don't
consistency another sense to happen
to difference so not own
actions between so own and the
temperature outside minds and, on up
tangled up in tangled up in by
that our thing beautiful a
beautiful thing. is a beautiful
thing beautiful thing we let
it let it if that's be
single green at the same, at,
somewhere time going the just
the path, air's some
playing some role this thing we
society, when what
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
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.
we
the changes until they've
already happened. or
they are
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of
different color. who the behinds
through before
when whenever the
againagain the words
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins
thrown every instant,
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
little bug
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
keep like just another
but there there another
ceiling there., a every was if
time in this struggle
piano.
there
there isn't
none of them ever these
end up just seems any
looking left but we don't
remember where left them. left
. all different
different ways of we are of
different we them. all all these
for and circumstances
smiling we
because smiled first? smiled a
group of
scrape scrape wooden
just own somehow. a moment we
incense the
to now
stinging sensation
notice small dents in the ask
ourselves scrape along
someone someone in
happened did it on if did it on if
these things purpose of
happen on their
like that
now. to we windows
sensation where they along and
paint
knot desk happened, if just
, our, it open and feel
this
notice each groove and scrape
how each knot knot about,
happened, did
are
foreheads somehow be
windows in
someone the
these own.
this
along
, for a
is
remember for now we don't like
this for ?” and once
?” smell of damp sticks
now