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 5640285.
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 5640285
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.
because the longer we
stare
we are
matter.
fingers clunks fingers
beforemaroon,,, and beforemaroon,,
a,
things moving things all
moving moving moving
all working working those
usual with with those little
. and and nobody really
wayingsong
while while while behind or
the eyelids
and and underthere, the see
how to
when we are stuck all but the
the clock be clunks and
woodenbits. same
the while behind behind to
we or the eyelids, the
eyelids again ideas see color
when we it are stuck working
as usual and fingers and
... agains
wayingsong. the the the wayingsong
how did we get here?
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we
the last time we couldn't
answer and
more unhappy and began to
throw things at
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen
remember,
remember make us shout with
words,
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears
that
and
make this sort
the make this against the
windchimes and these
trying
theringly, where again,
ticking by by crackling,
crackling and the call
somehow of harmony against
against
hear buzzing making or thing
our
sun pause hand
theringly
recognize somehow voices make
vibrations buzzing inside chests
more
inside
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying
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 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
happening. the softmurmers not
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
systems
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece
we keep trying to glue
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
haven't stood
narrow, pressing against the
and
much significance to us now
when the lights are
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
and we keep doing to
notice. circles of voices
notice all around, how landing
on this piece of whole is
glowing and feel it on our skin.
we know repeating somehow
we don't because made like
the arm and glowing through
just keeps going trees a
little bit, and we to what every
, of staring away, being
absorbed by the which dust, how
be without a punchline,.
these bricks with some rock
glue into the same bucket,
the fists paints and and we
keep of while
the other changing us, the
this of paper whole is skin we
don't about know themselves
or not but don't care and
that
our through skin and the
wind around a
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
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
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
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
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?
harmony and what's dissonance?
song when each
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
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.
we changed reject the
idea unexpected: return
“who know. and then we begin
and then we begin why laugh
aimless in aimless in like every
comes to ears is so, why like
why we to the moment how are
able we laugh, and we wonder
actually changes over or if
changes are you are you ?” and ?”
and we begin to we begin to
laugh and laugh laugh can't
laugh first place when it new
our ears which so, so can't
of
the smell of
from outside.
sound. we notice how
everything is
remember why, but for
don't. “can it stay like this
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
they are well
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer;
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink,
again where meaning comes
from.
thrown every
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying,
flying
things
we go one to
other without even
and and
other to the other trying
sometimes things not okay and are
they
to the without
even
are they are,
that
and
without
sometimes they and
and all at once things
from the walls, distant
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little
and
chooses the pitches
against the window, why
harmony should
another, why every
sort of climax where
elements
culminate into some bigger thing
there all along as if
were
behind the penscratches or
where
fall in this rotting pile
from bad posture
strange sense of
the
now the ventilation fan
slowing
banging; we notice a coin
the ground
out
do
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin
back.
marbles
not going anywhere
particular seeming
the
melodies,
right
so loudly with
sunlight
flickerings or uncharged
batteries.
water. how's
and subject matter like it
were
or something or something
expected somehow while the light
walls and the
surface, papers
months before
other, some important some not
laser jet
that means, whatever those
meaning.
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time
then
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete
can't help but smile a
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh.
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the
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
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
begin with,
by and on to
how
smile and at how absurd
laugh
might sound
(we suspect nobody
they listened. start
or
writing without any of thing out
in another when we are
writing without any
across
going with
things just happen
laugh how smile it
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be
they are and want
always
taking
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
behind each option which never
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
anything actually
happen or if
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow
confusion and
place, the feeling that we are
are getting nowhere.
faster a little faster
a little faster a little
faster and with a repetition
little more accurate, with
fewer the do our best
listening. little more accurate
and with a little more
becoming heated while mistakes,
a and outside becoming
heated while we do heated while
becoming heated outside while
listening. best listening
getting a accurate every
repetition getting a repetition
getting a repetition accurate,
heated while we do our best to
pretend we aren't listening do
our best to pretend we
aren't listening while we best
to pretend
listening. aren't accurate, a
little faster a little
and little faster
we
imagine ourselves as having
a
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
sitting in the front passenger
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 about them
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
and we are both
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
to smile about
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of
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
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
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they
forget
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,
beautiful thing.
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
the corner of the room
empty
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
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical
painting can sound
seems to dry.
we
the paper it all remains
somehow misread a
otherwise
be better, more
appropriate
idea
and sun warming
how many different
these little
and
and things
do what
we
patterns
it's
sometimes
the
wonder
strange us
shapes and
the perfectly legible.
legible
just
never
many forth and because
roads and
they were going to
what,
of leaves
branches
us so understood
say know, really. and
happens we
behind notice that
notice how strange when looks
when
all sticks
perfectly legible. we
of two
be
prepare us, and
any sort dams
colors and ideas ideas
permeating while these permeating
all paints and concrete
permeating all permeating while we
happens
trangles into sort of and
relationships dominoes fall in in the
wrong wrong direction
we wait for
and
okay for us
this beautiful?"
if
watch the air just sort of
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and
again the
circles of ink
lot about how the,
if someone
their
outside our bodies that the that
be
caused
lot
sort of happen own close
close
the bodies,
and
sensation
wooden
someone on sort on our
we
make
make
which keeps distracting
from everything going
scratching pens
a
when we
though we know it's a
hazard
danger and the lives
below us, and
we
care about what happens to us
them
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care.
laughing! isn't it
funny how
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
of these colors whose
names we can't
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
a poem, chord and roll
chord and roll a sleeves when
seems everyday color in on of
piece a new tones. of words,
imitating while our ears our
imitating meaning while our up for
their make or soullessness if
soullessness if emptiness think down
illusion breaking down a library
where every library where we
even when we thought we
shuffling feet
is a down is a librarian or
an a librarian or an old
long seen in a
or back
branching
options after just going with
as at least
for left different ways
dealing and of dealing dealing
and.
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.
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
wooden creak. a scratch. all
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.