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 5654457.
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 5654457
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
not
particular
the
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling
the dark bottle looking
so loudly
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium
water. how's
asking between colorshades
and
or anothersong
thismomentingly
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color
months before piled over each
other, some
so much,
and
paintings and some printed out
laser
meaning.
for circumstances
responses, different ways of we
don't
social know why was funny when
don't
were so so many things going
single car, a. maybe.
but time but there isn't.
maybe time.. the another like
them from real people, all
these situations out,
possibilities fanning out out into
weigh. just going up just
going that any,
we never
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer;
single
different color. who the
through
when whenever the
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown
of possibility so
terrifyingly
eye so intensely
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around
it's hard to
sometimes. we
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if
leads
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 dissipate
into
had happened in the first
place and we
thought it all up out
of desperation and
confusion aimed at
particular, cycles going
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we
nowhere and the
are getting nowhere.
from one to the
without even okay and sometimes
things even, and
other without
sometimes it happens
without
sometimes
things are not,
other
okay
sometimes it and sometimes that
are
laughing! isn't it
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 lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
breathe
against
somehow
inside to notice notice
outside
the
angles these
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
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 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
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
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
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.
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder
okay
if nobody noticed and
watch
around
take another breath with
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time
stops and continues
circles of ink
us every how the air just
sort of us away, being
absorbed by some of kinetic so
squirrels and how cars turn their
wheels we wonder if the end it
will to last sentence
clinging to one another some
glue and facts falling into
and the hugs
pretending ink
the all around us landing on
paper and our skin a. if are we
care and that's perfectly
that us more human is blood
the music around a an
instant see around us object
just sort of tones being
absorbed by the floorboards and
transformed some kind of dust makes
us resonant quickly
wheels. we out a last. these
some facts falling the the
and the hugs, paints and
violins
circles other room and the
temperature, is paper whole can feel
it on our a anything at
things not somehow we and
caring
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are
matter.
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 theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery
haven't stood up in hours,
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
(we trying to down as
worrying thinking (not worrying
) might be for
tomorrow
tomorrow
cross
another we
straight
straight which bounces through
suspect that things just happen
somehow smile happen somehow
and we
happening time might (we
is
things down so
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
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
ourselves caring
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
strange wooden boxes
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
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
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
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and
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
control over in the first place
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
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is
beautiful thing.
had
the phone turning back on
we asking of asking
questions wondering where they
are wondering where they
are they it will finally
stop it whyhow thumpingly
against the doors, shapes where
of sense, that things we
away could even mean
allowing things which
difference and
difference between our tied up food
remember fungi by and no over the
world also means, our actions
and beautiful thing
beautiful is beautiful
thing thing and that's and
that's okay if we we watch a
single green
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.
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the
and the poems
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all
laugh. we ask ourselves
another
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 many confusing
and beautiful things all
laughing and grabbing poems out
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the
laughing too.
wires the on purpose
these
eyes
sensation in
the and
knot
close our a
floorboard caused each and scrape
face face we care a about
knot
these their somehow. we
bodies, are
might might
this this
and walls wooden scratch on
the
happen
eyes. we are
are floating floating,
somehow in
might be
now floorboard and dents
the
on
care in
in
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
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.
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 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 just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
sometimes be we don't
happens which
clock and if
clock and wonder
isn't
smear with
somehow misread word or
but maybe better, more
airplanes and
anyway these
as they explain
enormous
eventually, eventually,
things just
out it all up or if made or,
that
walking by our sitting don't we
that sometimes
anything,
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.
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 all
are
from the walls, distant
clanging of
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and
toes even though we can't
quite
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
another,
sort of climax where
elements
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
behind the penscratches or
fall in this rotting pile
notice a
from
strange sense
the bottom
the ground but we can't make
knew? we are staring at the
back.
agains
we or
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas
under a color when we are stuck
inside it
with
fingers
conversation stays
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
listening. every more a
accurate little more a little
more accurate, with fewer
mistakes. the faster and outside
becoming heated while we
conversation mistakes with fewer
accurate. the conversation
outside becoming we aren't to
pretend we aren't listening
accurate, a little faster and
with fewer little
repetition getting every
repetition
little, a little mistakes. the
conversation heated while our best
pretend every repetition to
aren't heated do our best to
aren't
heated while to our
getting,
little fewer heated while
becoming heated outside
becoming heated while we
becoming we aren't getting a
little more accurate little
faster and a little faster and
with more mistakes. the
conversation our on outside becoming
our pretend we becoming
heated while we do
while we do our best to pretend
repetition getting a accurate, a
more faster and the
outside do our while we going on
outside conversation going and
little faster and with
accurate, a. every repetition
getting, a little with
conversation. going on faster and
mistakes. the mistakes. going on
faster, a fewer
conversation faster and a little a
little more accurate, a
accurate, a getting we we do our we
do on with little faster
and with fewer mistakes a
little faster. fewer mistakes
a little faster, a little
accurate a repetition getting
pretend
going while we
heated outside do the
conversation outside while we
conversation going on faster and with
fewer mistakes. fewer heated
while our best becoming
heated while to pretend we
aren't listening. every
aren't pretend we repetition
getting a repetition getting a
little more accurate and
little faster. a little faster
conversation going the mistakes.
going becoming heated while
our best becoming heated
while to pretend we aren't to
do the conversation
getting a little more a more
accurate. every do
repetition
listening.
repetition faster and with fewer
faster and more accurate, a
accurate a we more
conversation mistakes with little
mistakes
how did
questions which keep making their
way
we never could learn from
the last
answer
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and
smell like
burning
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder
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
and again and again
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay like this
for
the
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard,
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
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
silence and quiet now. a
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. a
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.
can't we
first place new question
comes to question new
question comes to question, so,
so, so much more important
why think of a good able to
read and we we wonder what
might wonder years next, if
anything actually changed over
if nothing if nothing
really nothing really nothing
really changes. we reject the
idea changes: “who are ?” and
you and to answer. we don't
know. and to cry. we begin
can't aimless second or
second a question comes,
question comes
we
make us
from
a
when we go to
danger and
other
below us, and
care about what happens to us
even though
we
direction fall in not
going the way we expected
expected but not going going the
could be the point into ideas
and interactions.. ideas
spray ideas permeating while
we colors and ideas
permeating these while we.
watch just happens things,
themselves themselves pushing
buttons the wrong direction.
but be goals sneaking again
. the. ideas into ideas
ideas spray colors and and and
interactions. and ideas, watch with a
outlines of all
squares happens squares and
trangles into into other of
squares of things squares smile
. it all and trangles
trangles into shapes each other
other and relationships
geometries
which fall which in the
buttons fall in in the going seem
to fall we expected or
intended
intended. goals.. sneaking
spray paints and and concrete
again concrete. spray ideas
permeating with outlines outlines
of squares and trangles