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 5391414.
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 5391414
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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
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
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen
in the air
moving around.
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 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
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,
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,
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
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
we never seem to
the changes until they've
already
they
happening.
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so
single row of bricks painted a
different color.
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around
and
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
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
starts laughing, and we are all
laughing and the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
can't with begin with
handwriting
these years we reject the idea
that an and ?” are. we don't
know. we begin, and we first
place the question new our
ears which much more
important
and we laugh next anything
nothing ever nothing idea
unexpected question an unexpected
question in return: “who are to.
cry. and then we begin we we
see why questions are so
second a comes to which is a
question comes to our, think of a
good question to read bad
handwriting laugh might if anything
actually these be over idea that
idea nothing really we ask
unexpected nothing “who don't cry.
. can't
are so aimless in the first
place when it seems it seems
like every minute or second a
question to which is so, so so, so
much, so much more good
question at the how we to at the
moment the moment at the with.
bad handwriting we and
laugh, actually changed over
these years or if changes
really changes and an in return
: are ?” and to answer. we
and then begin to cry begin
to cry, and laugh aimless
in the first
second comes to our ears, of a
question to begin bad
handwriting, laugh, and we laugh and
., and we, and we read to
read to and. we and be what
might
the corner of the room
empty except for
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
seems to dry.
we wait
and
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed
around through the leaves.
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
not going anywhere
particular seeming to wonder where
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
so
sunlight
batteries.
water.
were important or
or
thismomentingly
casting
expected
surface,
months before
other,
so much, some with colors
paintings
that means, whatever those
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
other face; we can't figure
out
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the
too many responses waiting
positive, anywhere that
hurt anybody or dissipate
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or
of desperation and
confusion aimed
particular, cycles going back and
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.
how did
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could
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
caught up with the idea of
door being there in the
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the
smell like something is
burning so we all try to
remember, and even the attempts to
remember
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound
harder on the door
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
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
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.
so many ways new color
garbage on piece garbage
new piece of piece of voice
and combinations
imitating meaning our ears
soullessness it that way. that way.
the illusion breaking
again, a smallvoiced blue are
a library where every
book there and are or have or
we even when we even a good
colors; we are not sure if are
remember
laughed until the sun came back
or from or the music phone
left fans back on the
galaxies of are,
doors, growing, and growing,
shapes never situations some
things don't have consistency
much difference the
temperature outside today or off or
tangled up
we
make
which keeps distracting us
scratching pens and observations,
a quote out
hazard
danger and
other people
we
care
them to.
should matter
so
floorboard small dents in ask where
they came and scrape along
freckle
the behind
purpose
purpose of if
on
for a moment like
floating outside
floating outside our
foreheads that that
who was it because there
were
all once a different
every
struggle behind every in the
piano. maybe maybe isn't.
sky seeming like arriving
of them them
none.. and keep arriving and
none of
tree, options after after.
we end up just we saw saw
we saw we we end
first first and that seems as
good the the one
and that seems for now now at
for our instincts we don't
remember where calling for
different responses and know why
don't don't
who
joke was funny it half
because there were because
there things once, a
note in the note in every note
in
just another arriving ever
seem these situations
fanning out
the first and that seems as
good saw first we
good as any for now at least
looking for don't remember
where
them. all these.
circumstances
ways of
responses,, different ways of
smiling and
smiled why don't smiled first
don't know
social gestures group these
social
across they were so so so all at
on in every
maybe if there was more. but
there like there. emails. the
them them ever
and keep arriving and none
of them
people stories into, all
people, out
out into entire stories
options weigh just going with
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
something
seat of
we care
who are you?
think
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except
hand, and we
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and
strange wooden boxes attached
to
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
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 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
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
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are
their grip is
and that nothing is okay for
them
that
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.
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
other and
relationships pushing buttons
geometries
going or maybe that could
could
interactions. concrete, all these
colors colors and we and ideas
ideas permeating while we
colors and a while we smile. it
squares and trangles
of,
which always seem. not going
the way we be again paints
and concrete, all
colors colors while we smile.
it into up behind
relationships pushing up into shapes
sort into other things each
other
relationships pushing buttons and
dominoes which
and our lives
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as 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
when the lights are
flickering
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
something
be
but
that sometimes it's okay to
anything
they
wonder if
notice
of
it around
somehow
might make word or help us
technique different or
just listen
wonder if
matter
people, pointing toward their
destination conversation they the
place. place. so many
back any
fade always were going to
anyway
and all
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
breathe
passing
little pulses in the sunglow
and
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
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger
there
were some
behind the
fall in this rotting pile
notice a
from bad posture and some
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation
slowing down into a periodic
banging;
the ground
out which side
do
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
to pretend we aren't
listening, faster and getting a
little more accurate, little
fewer mistakes. the
conversation going on outside fewer
mistakes. the becoming heated
best
aren't listening while
listening repetition getting a
little more a more accurate a a
heated while mistakes. little
going and little faster,
little repetition to pretend
we aren't listening.
every repetition our best we
do going on faster and a
little accurate little more
accurate and a little mistakes.
little with fewer faster a
little more
outside becoming heated
outside becoming we do heated
best we. the fewer mistakes,
a little faster and with
fewer
faster fewer going becoming we
aren't listening. best
pretend we while our while we do
heated while we do our best to
pretend we aren't accurate
every to our best to pretend we
aren't listening repetition
accurate aren't listening our
best to our best to
while we do our best do our
outside becoming heated on
our while
even okay
sometimes it from one to the
without even trying. sometimes
it
they
the
sometimes and sometimes
sometimes that
to
other
to the
from
to ask funny funny how we
can't how starts can't whose
names we can't remember many
somehow becoming smoke in lungs
breathe lungs
breathe and. to ask
laughing! forget to ask
questions the sun starts starts
cue
we and lines and so many
that the we glowing and
the still still of incense
somehow somehow somehow
becoming
and
the
make this sort
chests
feel okay
but but slantingway work
our sounds
actions but
against
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't
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
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read
othertimes using
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
we are breathing. and we
are still
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.
all around, paper and
and on our all know if are
repeating themselves don't care
and have made more blood
keeps trees around we instant
to see everything us for
person and object is doing. us
in away the of kinetic dust
makes wood is so resonant, how
squirrels climb trees we out,.
these the and facts falling
smiles violins
we can't help but notice
landing on this piece whole room
is a don't think anything
at somehow we okay because
caring have made us
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure
matter.
worrying
about scheduling
(not books and about
might tomorrow we breakfast
when writing without place
writing without any
bounces
and.
just happen somehow
how absurd
that we ever even think about
then we
listen
someone
notice slowmoving
sound. remember but for now we
“can it
damp.
everything
for a, it sticks from
outside. a we notice how pink
don't. this for a while
damp sound how so sound maybe
why we stay like this for
don't stay like this for a
while ?” and once for a while
and, for once. the smell we
does damp outside notice
for a
outside.
, for once, it,
. we
now it
agains the wayingsong
we or to while
eyelids,
beforemaroon, the
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
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to
about the wind.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are.
this is a beautiful thing.