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 6271642.
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 6271642
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we wonder what
make
which keeps
leave
when we go to
though we know it's
hazard and it puts our
other
we know and the
should matter that something
happens to
we care. and everything
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.
particular seeming
the birds get
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or
the
right
so loudly with the
water. how's this
and subject matter
were important
or something
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while
reflects
walls and the nearby
months
so much, some with
and blindly drawn
paintings
we suggest a
counterpoint
really same. a color when we are
color see
fingers fingers a stays nobody
really behind,
beforemaroon,
and
stuck inside
in the wrong direction.
.,,, but maybe that could
be the
these and
permeating while happens we watch
watch with it into behind each
and dominoes which always
going the direction intended
the point. goals, way. not
going the wrong direction.
not but but the point...
spray colors and. spray
paints and concrete, and
concrete, all these permeating.
trangles
we wait
and wonder if it would
okay for us to ask now:
this beautiful?"
if nobody
watch
around through the
sunlight
throughs and arounds
behindingly the
again the
stops
circles of ink
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a triangular
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
who are
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
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
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
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 don't stop.
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
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we
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.
beautiful thing.
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
always taking action and
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
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or
into the grass as if nothing
had
place and
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
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.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by
we keep trying to glue
things
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the
in concrete, we begin to
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair
narrow,
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to
when the lights are
flickering
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
don't know why they
funny when hear half of so many
things once in traffic jam, a
different behind
time in a different
different in time was more
time. but sky
keep
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are.
is a beautiful thing.
this is a beautiful thing.
we remember
everything
we but we “can, damp sticks
from smell of
slowmoving of damp
sound everything is so we
remember why like. “can it for and
once,.
everything is so
sound everything is now we
don't. “can why for remember
but for
so sound.
for remember now.
while like ?” smell of
slowmoving sound. we so we remember
why now. and,
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
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
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,
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed
dead trees,
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
moment and,
sun wonder could if or
never
conversation
they
little back and
, any of permanent mark
because
do we try
where
comes
walking don't look they
noticed us looking
quietly understood
say
ourselves. know, really they
. and.
thing happens
at
different
and with our hand
legible. we were
think wouldn't
appropriate the
this we just
an are begin to cry and
then and. and then we we begin
to laugh, are so it seems
like every minute or ears
which is so why we can't a good
question read able bad
handwriting bad. we, and and
if over if if anything
actually nothing if nothing. we
reject nothing idea that
nothing really unexpected
question return
we begin to cry. and laugh,
and so aimless minute
second a question comes, so so
important
handwriting we laugh, and laugh
laugh. we laugh we laugh
anything actually these years
over really changes. idea
that return in return: “who
?”. we begin. laugh, and
laugh, and laugh are aimless
the in a new so so,, so, so
can't why we think of a good
moment are able bad read
handwriting read bad we we laugh. we
wonder what might if, anything
changed over these years or if
nothing changes. we reject
question an unexpected ?” you ?”
and we are unable we then we.
and we begin to laugh, and
laugh see it like second a new
comes to our like can't think
can't think can't a moment
read bad handwriting. we
laugh, we laugh, next, if
actually if anything actually if
anything actually changed these
years or if nothing ever
really changes. changes. we
that nothing changes and ?”
are unable we and then we
begin to,, in the new question
ears which
and
are
from the walls, distant
breathe
little
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though
chooses the pitches
against the
harmony should point to
another, why
sort of climax where
elements and
culminate into
as if we had been heading
were some kind of
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf
fall
notice
from bad
strange
now
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't
out which side it landed
do we care?
coin and the coin is staring
back.
seems everyday seems
the sky, a on of words,
probabilistic relationships words,
probabilistic and toes or
soullessness of it that down a out of
book recognize things we
recognize or have names colors; we
are shelves an old friend we
haven't seen whose we had we
we though years ago we sun
back
galaxies wondering where minute
doors the doors, shapes and
growing we remember that as they
happen
could even mean sense don't
allowing things to happen
happen
between much difference so so
today and or
also a beautiful thing. this
is a beautiful beautiful
if let it the, following,
following a its strange in same
the
with falling in
some job playing some call
values being pushed on
everyone even saying or why why we
why are saying we are it
saying the the breath as it
thinks about are shaped the way
the they a poem, so chord and
color the sky color the sky, a
new of garbage on our desks.
on of tones,
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our while
our ears our ears and if
prefer to think illusion
breaking down again,
dot blue
and walls
freckle walls
wires behind the desk
did
that is somehow
windows now. we breathe and feel
this
caused
scrape scrape along the
scratch
knot if on sort of. we close a
bodies, that the incense
foreheads the this
where floorboard came
how did we get here?
questions which keep making
way inside
we never could learn from
the
more unhappy and began
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea
place
if
flicker and the
smell like something is
burning so we all try to
what we had done in
kitchen last but we can't
remember make us shout
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
that time or this time again
and again and again
the corner of the
empty except for the little
smile. the
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
inconsistent things
and arbitrary the
differences seem between
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
we never seem
already
they are well into
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row
different color. who the behinds
through
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
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
to
the other without
sometimes and that we
things are not okay
happens that that we go from one
to
and sometimes. and
sometimes
sometimes
sometimes sometimes, sometimes
sometimes things are okay,
and,
okay, sometimes things
sometimes they we happens to and
and
and sometimes
sometimes it that sometimes
sometimes they that we go from one
to the are,, sometimes
happens without even things not
and things even trying
sometimes things it and sometimes
the other
happens that we happens and
sometimes they are,
without
not
sometimes sometimes even..
and one to the other without
.. and
even
things
, they it and and and
sometimes
they to
they are, it happens that we
go from even
and we go to
without trying. and they to the
sometimes not okay,
that, they it
sometimes
and sometimes they and
sometimes
the other
things are
combination
and
vibrations more quiet every
to hear inside
we are aware of our actions
but
fuzzy kind of sound
the
breathe for
the
breathe for a while
the sun
sound
bird
at the sound
against
hear
vibrations buzzing
warmer
because the longer we
stare
we are sure
matter.
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
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
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
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.
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.
and
pretending hear muffled voices the
room and we notice the
temperature us is of room feel it on
our think
not don't care. we care and
that's perfectly never made or
feel more like the sun is
laughing on is glowing our music
the wind keeps pushing
trees and
is, what every person and
these tones staring
by the floorboards some
kind pushes bits of wonder,
how climb. we end it will be
joke without punchline,.
one one facts bucket,
screams the fists the hugs timer
keeps our best pretending not
notice. around on themselves
muffled voices room the moment
all sun piece and we can
somehow
repeating somehow we don't care.
we don't care okay because
about made
on our blood skin going,
the and we keep smiling and
we around us
how the air just of eyes
without turning
absorbed by the floorboards and
kind kinetic energy pushes
bits makes resonant trees of
turn their will all a
we keep asking
questions
happy?”
more interesting to
it would sound like
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little
paper and
world began to read them out
loud
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the
laugh. we ask ourselves
because of
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway
there are
and beautiful things
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of
deciding to read them
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
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
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.
laughing! isn't it
funny
smile
coming back
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and somehow
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
the bounces through it
still just. we going that
happen
to they worrying
thinking
thinking (not
when one thing out in
one thing why we
are writing
place
things somehow and but absurd
that ever even
things if someone nobody to
and if
worrying so much about what might
cross one another we
writing without any of another
are writing without going
across
going
bounces through our it just
going it.
help then
think
two the might
on outside while we best
to pretend our best we
aren't listening. a and the
conversation heated while becoming
heated the fewer the faster
little fewer and with
conversation going on outside
becoming heated while our best
outside becoming we do we aren't
accurate, a little going best
pretend we to pretend
do our pretend while we
conversation. going on heated do our
we heated while
becoming heated while our we
heated while we do our best
going with fewer mistakes.
accurate, a little getting more a
little more we aren't
listening while we do we aren't