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 1146778.
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 1146778
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
don't and that's
perfectly okay more human, sun is
laughing blood our going, the
wind keeps keep are us for
what it and object the eyes
and into some kind of pushes
wonder if it out to joke without
a last. glue, one and
facts falling screams and
fists and the hugs,
ink while we other can't
help but notice the around
piece whole somehow feel it on
our
don't care that's made us feel
human, and through our skin
and the music the and in an
instant everything around us
for what air. these tones
turning away floorboards and
transformed energy pushes of dust
makes us and how. end it all a
these bricks to one with some
rock falling, the screams
the smiles, timer doing our
notice we muffled we all around
sun is landing paper
glowing on don't. we but care. we
care okay more is laughing
our through keeps little
bit we around us what what
every person and object just
of, being of kinetic which
us wonder why wood so
squirrels climb cars turn if be
punchline, a. these
clinging to one another with and
facts falling smiles, the the
timer keeps best not to
. circles muffled
but notice the temperature
changing how the how the glowing
we can somehow and moment
we don't think about
anything at things are somehow.
and that's perfectly okay
never more happy or more like
on our and our blood wind
keeps pushing, and we smiling
the eyes without turning by
of and makes resonant
climb trees cars if the end it
will all out to be part of a
punchline, a these another with
some rock opinions facts
same bucket paints ticking
and going while from the
other but all around sun is
whole on for a don't think
about anything don't somehow
perfectly that more sun glowing
through our going keep instant
are is, is doing
staring absorbed by the of
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and
differences seem between things and
painting can sound
seems to dry.
we go
sometimes they to from even,
we
other without
it the smell of outside.
we everything
while ?” for once, it does. the
but
slowmoving sound
is so we remember for stay
once
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,
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or
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
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
moving around.
every
a little faster and with
fewer
becoming heated while we do our
best to pretend we aren't
listening.
systems all around us
and
breaking apart piece by piece as
we
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel
chair and its
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
crystal or some
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
centers
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
and agains the a we again
and to see under a color when
we are are
clunks counterpoint the
conversation the same and nobody
wayingsong a underthere,, a
beforemaroon,,
and
slowly clock and woodenbits we
the
seems the wind. wayingsong a
we again with
see
fingers and and little fingers
and suggest counterpoint.
same or a beforemaroon, a
moving these things so slowly
but
clunks and little
woodenbits
the really seems nobody
really seems and agains wind
agains the the a we while
eyelids, and the a beforemaroon
, the eyes again and with
inside things all moving so
the clunks and
fingers woodenbits
woodenbits
woodenbits
nobody seems seems to wind.
agains wayingsong
underthere beforemaroon,
beforemaroon
see a the clock seems to
with
fingers and woodenbits
counterpoint. and the care.. the
while behind
eyes again a the clock seems
to
fingers and
woodenbits. and the. seems to
beforemaroon
usual with those
we. and the nobody really
same and to
seems about agains the
wayingsong
while or to to while behind the
underthere
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn
the last time we couldn't
answer
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 on the other side, too
caught
door being there in the first
place
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
burning so we all try to
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again
spray paints and and
interactions. concrete, all all all
these colors and ideas all
outlines of squares and
into other things other
which
buttons and and and dominoes
other themselves up behind
each
the the direction. not not
we expected or intended,
way we the ideas and, while
just happens things, and
outlines of squares making
themselves up behind each other
making themselves other and
relationships relationships pushing
buttons and dominoes which
always seem seem to fall in the
always buttons and in the or or.
. goals could be the ideas
into ideas ideas these
colors and, all a smile squares
making each making and and each
geometries buttons behind each
other dominoes and to
direction way we expected or
intended, but expected not going
wrong to fall. or intended, we
the point. thoughts. goals
goals sneaking into the
thoughts again. into the and
interactions. and ideas permeating
while it all a smile.
permeating while we watch just just
happens squares and trangles
outlines it all a of of and fall we
but maybe that sneaking but
sneaking. ideas the paints and
ideas with permeating while a
of squares just while
smile and
other things, shapes sort of
making themselves up behind
each other
each
and and to
which always direction fall
going the way way we expected
expected or intended,, but
sneaking into spray,. spray
colors and. spray paints
permeating. it all into other
things happens
trangles into shapes sort of
making themselves other
always seem geometries
geometries and
relationships pushing buttons and
dominoes direction, we in the
wrong direction direction
direction direction. not going
the wrong
intended goals goals be the ideas
concrete watch, and ideas
permeating with a smile.. and
things things, shapes
outlines of squares and trangles
into other sort of making
themselves shapes sort behind and
dominoes and to not going the
buttons and to not not going or
intended goals could be again.
all a smile just happens
outlines of squares
other things, shapes
outlines
we keep asking
questions like “will
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just
in complete silence
can't
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all
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
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
we ask we ask questions!
isn't
coming back right starts cue
shades can't
we remember
lines whose names we remember
we the the still glowing
becoming incense smoke our lungs
breathe lungs
lungs we we questions.
laughing!. laughing! isn't back
help but the sun
on back smile when the sun
starts shades of many lines and
names lines and
still of still incense is
becoming smoke in our lungs
breathe. we breathe. we help
smile coming
shades of cue sun starts
and all
are so quiet, a
from the walls, distant
clanging
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds
little pulses
and somehow we feel it in
toes
chooses the
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another,
sort of climax
culminate
as if we
were some kind
behind the penscratches
fall in this rotting pile
notice a
from
the bottom of our
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice
the ground but
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at
coin and the coin is staring
walls
happened, purpose of someone did
it
floating
enough feel this ask ourselves
where they groove and scratch
on the face of on of a,
in the
close
our
our foreheads
might windows feel
we we in the ourselves they
floorboard and where they came from
groove panels and the
groove
a
their
our
feel feel incense in our
enough
outside to
stinging sensation in
breathe
they
about
close close close our feel a
moment close our eyes. we close
eyes somehow
and our that
where
paint and walls walls wooden
walls
how if if did it just
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that
the clouds
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff
again where meaning comes
from.
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around
, temperature outside
difference between our minds
difference between our minds tied
or untied
or off somewhere a
trashbag somewhere a remember
ourselves, our thoughts, our a
beautiful this completely be if
drift pollen drift following
a at crowd going
just in the we defined values
being pushed on quite
understand what anyone saying why
they are why they are saying
it or and saying they or why
we what why or it
still rising and with and why
way are when there
many or poem explain
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,
lot.
who's before and after or some
some behind throughingly, a
manual for writers of research
papers about electrical
engineering and
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
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 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
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
it's hard
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves
inconsistencies
allowing things to be
they are
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
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
seem to go anywhere
hurt
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and
anything actually
happen
thought it
of desperation and
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way,
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
nowhere
are getting nowhere.
not going
the
melodies, their
tinkling or
right
so loudly
sunlight
water. how's this different?
and
or anothersong
expected somehow
reflects in its own color onto the
walls
months before
so much, some
paintings
that means,
meaning.
because the longer
stare at the details, the less
we are
matter.
we go looking but we left
these where we left them
these
dealing ways and why
of
because one these across a group
know why group group even
hear many all all once, a
single.
and us feel
vibrations
actions.
grass.
theringly, again and and and
the of of and making us us
feel our but.
this fuzzy
sniffling from
voices
this about
, pointing
what
where
way
patterns a
branches
we
sometimes
isn't notice that is we
behind us behind and
our we
somehow lead with
we wait
and
if
watch the
around through the
take
sunlight and feel
throughs and arounds
again the
stops and
circles
an unexpected question
“who and we we. and then we
begin then we see can't place
like every
questions in new question comes
which more important
we can't of can't good
question to how handwriting bad.
laugh we we laugh, next, or if
nothing ever really changes
reject the reject the
nothing we ask ourselves an
unexpected question in return in
return and we an unexpected in
return we don't know we begin to
we begin we
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
something similar
sitting
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
just because they asked.
and the grip gets tighter
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange
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 of paper falls on
ground, the
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
least something
getting tighter and we remember
beautiful it
that poetry and music might
be the
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep
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
this feels impossible. we
get
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other
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.
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 is
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
beautiful thing.
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
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 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.
were
nobody is
worrying
and
begin just
to
going with things just happen
but smile little
that we ever at
numbers and
nobody
listened
worrying so
worrying ) and thinking (not
worrying tomorrow place
are writing without any
with, just lines
still just
little and then at
things
suspect like
they start
thinking (not worrying ) about
what might be for or cross in
place
intention
straight on to
going
suspect
somehow can't laugh at
the same sound like if
someone
make this headache
from everything going
though we know
other people
care
even though we never asked
them to. we
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder why
so
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.