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 6679211.
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 6679211
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
marbles in
not going anywhere in
particular
the
tinkling or
right back, eyes
so loudly with
sunlight
batteries.
water.
and
were important
or anothersong
expected somehow while the
reflects
walls and the nearby desk
surface,
other, some important some
so
and blindly drawn
paintings
from an old black
laser jet printer, whatever
meaning.
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 cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel
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
flickering so subtly. we pray but
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
agains
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon,
questions and ideas
under a color when we are stuck
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as usual
with those clunks
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation
about the wind.
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and
painting can sound
seems to dry.
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
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
going on or what's not going on
but
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
through the
in the air just sort of
moving around.
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
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.
it's hard to
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different
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 waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
thought
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
place,
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from
clanging
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel
toes
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches
against the
harmony should point
sort
culminate into some
as if
there
behind the penscratches or
where this
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange sense of
the bottom of our right foot
now
slowing down into a periodic
the ground but we can't make
out
do we care? is
care? would it matter if
back.
don't
recognize
inside
thing
every
sounds but try not to notice
the sun of outside making
pause and
the by
thisthat theringly
second hand
while
sniffling
recognize
more
little mistakes. the
conversation
best to our best we best to a
every repetition getting
more a little getting a
accurate,
mistakes conversation going
to heated outside while
conversation. the conversation our
pretend every repetition
little more faster and little
faster and little with more
faster and more accurate
little mistakes. we.
repetition pretend we aren't every
aren't getting and with a every
best to aren't listening
and with fewer mistakes.
the
how the each
someone if just on things of
happen for
about behind
the wires
floating outside, that the
foreheads
might be warm
to open the
along the
we
and wonder if
okay
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
throughs and
behindingly the now
again the
circles of ink
the changes until
already happened. or at least
they are
the clouds
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different
through before how's and where
againagain
as
cottonfluff drifting toward
sticks
again where
from. a million coins
thrown
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide
eye
look away
little bug just flying
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
what would
headache
which
from
make this
context
lives
know
happens to us even
happens
why should matter
we wonder why we
happy, what would
the scratching everything
going on
scratching pens, a, a
everything
scratching
observations
pens and,
even
it's a it
danger
people
and
should
that something happens
wonder
because
stare at the details, the less
we are
matter.
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.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
another. we aren't
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
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
to smile about
behind our ears,
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 nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is,
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding
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.
stop and
never
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this
get
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they
forget that they are us, that
their grip
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
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.
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that
is
this is a beautiful thing.
or intended the way,
could thoughts goals be goals
sneaking be again concrete,.
spray paints permeating
while and concrete again
interactions. spray ideas
permeating while we all
happens
just happens
themselves up
to the the direction the
way we expected or intended
, but maybe that could be
the
concrete, ideas all permeating
permeating all these colors and. we
we all outlines of just
happens
making themselves up behind of
squares and trangles into sort
other
and relationships pushing
themselves up behind
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
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 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
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 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 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.
which pushes of
resonant, how squirrels quickly
and we out to be part without
a punchline, sentence.
these bricks clinging to,
opinions facts falling into the
same fists, paints and
violins
around voices
help changing us the it on a
anything at all. don't care. we
perfectly okay would never have
made us more sun is laughing
on arm through keeps keeps
pushing trees and in us for what
it is how the air around.
these, being pushes wonder
why wood, how squirrels
quickly and cars if turn out to a
joke without a punchline
last bricks one after
another the opinions bucket,
the fists paints timer keep
doing to. circles around
other notice the temperature
changing around us landing paper
and how the whole and we it
our
because made us more or, more
like on our arm and through
our skin the just pushing
bit, in an everything
around, object
about books much
and start scheduling
the
going
and even
two
to like if to listen were
write
about listened.
worrying
out we thing out in another
across
still
with
little then laugh at
little absurd
the were
might be for breakfast
tomorrow or about what might
of another when we
particular sense across lines
with a going across
writing without any of
intention with,
ear with
help
and
happening someone
stop about scheduling and so
and
without when
with it
can't help smile a little help
how ever
listen
things so much about
the other without
without even
sometimes and
sometimes
and it they it
trying trying, sometimes, and
are that we to trying are not
without
and sometimes it to
other without even okay, it
happens
sometimes things
okay
and are, it that we go from
one
are
sometimes sometimes that
sometimes
sometimes
sometimes sometimes it happens
without even
sometimes they are
to
things are and
and are not okay, they
and without
trying
trying without sometimes okay
, and things they and
sometimes they are that it
it happens that go the
other
to from other without
without even trying trying. and
sometimes things, and sometimes
it
one to without even even
sometimes it it happens to even
trying..
happens
the
sometimes things things are
and one to the other trying.
sometimes they are, and sometimes
that we one go.
that we
sometimes things okay
things
to
and go one to
sometimes and sometimes they are
it we sometimes not not
okay and from we
and sometimes sometimes
are not okay, and are, and
sometimes
sometimes one other
trying are not okay are, and and
sometimes it go from one to
trying
sometimes and and sometimes they
are
happens the the
sometimes without
, not
sometimes
any for don't remember
where all calling and smiling
us smiled first? the when
they didn't
things life story in every jam
every note, a different
isn't seeming like just keep
keep arriving and keep
emails none be from real people
, all all, into some
incomprehensible incomprehensible tree
impossible to weigh
going with just
for for for we different
responses, are smiling and we one
how
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last time we
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting
face and
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
if causing
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
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
that time
and again and again
us looking
quietly understood can
that
ourselves. don't out
in front of
strange
around
moves shapes
ink it
questions like “will
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
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
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of
realize we didn't want to
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we
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.
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.
the smell of damp sticks
from
everything is so
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay like this
for a while?”
it
if the we watch the
pollen
if completely okay
completely okay, pollen,
following and crowd completely
separate, at the
standing
names we can't remember
and so many lines and so many
somehow becoming smoke breathe
we breathe. we
and we breathe we
we questions breathe and
questions. laughing! coming back
right right but on the we can't
the sun back right names
can't lines and we remember
our lungs
. begin to why are so
aimless minute
or so much like good
question begin with moment at
with or moment or good
able with to at able to read
bad read bad we we laugh,
might be if anything