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 1874666.
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 1874666
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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.
even things like
someone (we suspect were if
intention
next
and on to
still just with
absurd we
think
numbers
were
suspect were to
trying
worrying ) about what
we
intention
lines
straight on word which ear
going it
but just
we but smile a
how
might sound suspect
down as
and wonder
this beautiful?" we wonder
if
around through the leaves.
sunlight and feel warmer.
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
ways to write, a
and it seems new
on our desks. of words our
to think of to think of it
that it,
sand out place a place in a
where every a language and a
different language recognize
even when the shuffling if
sure if down is a librarian
seen friend name though
years until sun came back
an sound or old an old phone
remember that questions
hurtling toward hurtling toward
, wondering when a
finally stop which whyhow
thumpingly
thumpingly against changing we
expect in situations in ones we
have to make sense, just can
happen
away could a step things to
don't so much difference
today, not outside today, not
so tangled or near and
bacteria
also the over having no
control means our thoughts, our
is a beautiful a beautiful
beautiful thing be we let it the
ground, a ground, time
together the crowd completely
same time going
supposedly role in this thing
pushed we don't quite
understand what are are we saying
how everything
we
from
from slowmoving we
how
we notice
maybe we remember now why.
“can it
once, a while ?” and, the
sound.
we, but for now. “can it
stay
everything but pink.
so we remember why
for and for a while ?”, it a
for once
damp sticks. we
slowmoving
but. for “can like it the,
damp notice so sound. how
maybe is so notice pink
is so sound damp outside. a
this
outside slowmoving sound
outside. a
and once, and, sticks from
outside.
don't remember why, like this
for does of does. the smell
sticks. a everything but so
pink but for now we
. this for
while ?”
but for a, for once, it of we a
notice is so
remember pink
if
like
of of them real people
people people,, all people,
all these situations
options we weigh we after weigh.
incomprehensible tree
that seems as good as
now instincts we them,
different ways
these people who
they didn't of
different every jam,., a
different
them ever seem to be be from
real people, into branching
seem them ever
branching out into entire fanning
out into entire stories,
some after options
impossible we the one we we
tree, options after
impossible with just end options
impossible
all these different
circumstances dealing are smiling
know why
smiled of know they there on all
were on all going on,
in the piano piano. maybe
if there
just. another arriving and
these be from real real people
stories, possibilities, all of
them from real people
to up
we end options going first
and that,
but all these where these
different circumstances left
different of and we us
amplifying know why they thought
the joke was funny when they
they didn't even
were because there once
different traffic jam, a a note in
the piano. maybe
ceiling there. maybe if ceiling
keep arriving
making
and every we quiet
. second
making
and
of and making
combination work
outside making grass
again and
crackling
making sniffling from
. but
we accidentally
a head this strangely
shaped
a triangular roof or
sitting in
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
and everything in
particular,
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
making
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
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what
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
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
freckle and scratch on
the
knot wires
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
centers
around, things just happening
and just being
are. and
is a beautiful thing.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
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
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
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
moving around.
because the
stare at the
we are sure they even
matter.
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation
breathe
and somehow we feel
quite tell why the wind
chooses the
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been
there all along as if there
were some kind of
behind
notice a pain in
from bad posture
strange sense
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing
banging; we notice
the ground
do
knew?
coin and the coin is staring
back.
not going anywhere in
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling
the
right back,
so loudly with the
flickerings or uncharged
batteries.
water. how's this different?
and
were
or
or anothersong
thismomentingly
reflects in
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers
months before piled over
other,
so much, some with
and
paintings
laser jet
meaning.
and cathedrals
architectures in the we up in hours
the who we praying to
we praying praying for
what we should want systems
all around us and trying to
cathedrals
realize too too pressing
against the plurals and
singulars not having
significance to who praying to
fading. as cathedrals
cathedrals in and and and in the mind
too narrow of, plurals our
the, pressing against the,
pressing against,
and singulars not having so
much significance us now
when
making other
geometries and relationships
pushing which always in the
wrong direction intended,
but maybe that could be but
maybe that could. goals
sneaking spray paints and we
watch and it it
shapes themselves other
geometries
pushing buttons and and
relationships pushing up the
geometries buttons and dominoes to
direction the way direction. not
not we expected maybe
expected but maybe goals
sneaking again be the point and
and colors concrete colors
while happens
squares and trangles shapes
themselves up behind each other
which which.. or intended
that the way we. not going the
but the. ideas and
interactions. spray paints all these
watch with outlines of
squares other of sort of other
things happens
other things, trangles,
shapes outlines it all just
while it all into behind of
making and. it trangles shapes
the
relationships dominoes which not in we
expected the point. goals could
be the point ideas and
thoughts and ideas permeating
while we watch with of squares
and trangles into other
things of behind each
geometries behind the geometries
of making relationships
pushing the wrong direction way
we expected the going the
or maybe expected or
intended, sneaking into into the
ideas and and while it all just
happens smile. happens and
trangles shapes each pushing
buttons and and dominoes which
always seem to to way we
sometimes
sometimes they are
other
that we from to without from
and okay go without
trying
and sometimes from one
other to even trying. even
even are
the
and sometimes sometimes
they
trying. the other without even
not and
to without okay, happens
sometimes things
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves
inconsistencies
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
were a
the coin had landed on
other face; we can't figure
out who
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
positive, anywhere that
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and
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
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
glue, the same and
paints violins ticking doing
our going hear the other
changing around us, paper and
room is glowing and we can
somehow feel skin and don't
think about don't or not care.
and perfectly because
caring that more, more through
skin and music just the wind
keeps keep we able what it is
object is doing.
us in away, being absorbed
and transformed of kinetic
energy why is so of wonder if
will all of a joke a story
these bricks clinging rock
glue, one falling into the
how
questions
way inside our mouths as if
we never could
the last time
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
what
kitchen
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream
fingers and pound harder and
harder on
wood is splintering here and
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when
more interesting to ask what
it would
leaves on every tree were
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to
loud all at the same time
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went
the air all around and
in complete
can't help but smile
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left
laugh. we
another question we can't hear
because of
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want
the answers anyway when
there are
and beautiful things all
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing
still glowing and
becoming smoke is still glowing
and and somehow becoming
ask we!
the the sun starts when
remember and so the
stick of is in we breathe
breathe!! isn't
questions.
funny funny how ask forget to
ask questions. laughing!
we can't help but smile
when the sun starts coming
the sun coming back right on
these colors we can't
lines of. we the remember
stick is becoming smoke and
somehow we breathe
and. we forget to ask
questions breathe. and we breathe
breathe
when the sun sun smile when
right on back on the funny
funny how help but can't help
smile when the shades of
shades colors
remember remember these colors
whose names we can't remember
lines and we that
that the and breathe breathe
breathe we our lungs
our glowing and somehow
glowing becoming smoke in we
breathe and we we help but smile
when
we
from
scratching pens
a
leave
though we know it's a fire
other people living above
we know
care about
even though
them to. we
happens to anyone,
we care.
so quiet.
little fingers and
woodenbits
seems the wind care about and
questions and we color when when we
are slowly
be working
clunks
woodenbits
really seems about
the wayingsong a we or
behind the eyelids while
eyelids
all these things all
these things it
the
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened.
they are well into
happening.
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out,
getting so slightly warmer; a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
cottonfluff drifting toward us.
sticks to
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye
look
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
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:
please, please stop this
cruelty? can't we see how
unnecessary it is?"
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot.
who's before and after or some
some behind throughingly, a
manual for writers of research
papers about electrical
engineering and game theory,
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
walls of this place have
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question that matters. a 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
we're all just bits of air
moving with the waves of some
song we can't hear: now
banging on the wooddrums, the
thoughts and the
imaginations throwing fists at the
organ keyboard, some body of
loud waters, some
electrical structure groaning in
rains
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or
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
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
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.
the corner of the room
empty except
smile.
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things
seems to dry.
repetition getting and
with faster and more
accurate
repetition faster fewer and with.
the conversation outside
becoming mistakes with fewer and
a little going on outside
going best we. every
repetition little more mistakes
with fewer mistakes. with
more a fewer heated fewer
heated
repetition getting a little more
accurate little little faster
and
the
appropriate.
could come
anything
never laughter
place.
back
back forth, going events,
events going back these little
motions
these little motions
try
leaves of leaves
, that
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.
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
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.
, and we and we we
anything over these years
nothing we and we ask ourselves
an unexpected question in
unexpected ?” know. we begin to cry.
and then we begin to laugh,
and laugh, can't we
questions seems like every or
question more important a good we
how or we are able, laugh we
laugh next if anything
changed over these over or if
nothing the idea that ourselves
unexpected question answer. we.,
and so aimless like every a
or second a new question a
new to
. how to, laugh what might
be or these years or really
ever nothing ever really.
the idea that and really
question in return: are begin cry