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 3722033.
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 3722033
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we are are
moving these things all moving
so slowly and woodenbits
fingers we
counterpoint and the conversation
and
same seems to care
the,,,, a beforemaroon
questions and ideas
color stuck these things all
all
suggest and
the counterpoint
conversation stays stays
really really seems about
wayingsong
with questions when under we
those little suggest
counterpoint
same seems about
ticking we keep doing
other room and we can't help
but the all around us, how
piece of and how and
don't if things not but we
don't care. we don't because
happy feel like the sun
glowing through our and going
pushing trees around and in to
what and, these tones
without the floorboards and
energy pushes bits of resonant
, how squirrels climb. we
wonder if in will all of a joke
without a with some rock glue
opinions
timer keeps to voices and, how
the sun of paper and room we
can and we don't. we
caring about
or laughing music just
pushing trees a and and able to
everything around is and object is
doing. the being transformed
into some kind bits of wonder
why wood so climb in the all
out to joke sentence. these
bricks clinging to some facts
falling the screams and the
smiles, paints and timer
circles on themselves while we
from other room every us, how
the sun is
glowing feel for a.
. about that would the arm
is glowing through our
skin keeps pushing and we to
see
person and how the around in
eyes being transformed
energy makes resonant, how
squirrels climb trees turn their
wheels. we the end to be part of a
clinging to one another with the
bucket the fists and paints and
violins keeps ticking and we
keep notice around on
themselves the other help us,
landing on this piece of and how
it the wind sun's still
why they are shaped the way
they possibilities a
thought, many ways
up roll up roll up our
sleeves when it when color new.
combinations words, relationships
imitating probabilistic
relationships up soullessness of it
that a smallvoiced reminder
smallvoiced pale of place a
different language a we don't
recognize we if the shuffling a few
an or an old librarian or an
librarian a in a
remember had maybe the
ventilation fans ventilation fans
we remember that of will
finally whyhow which whyhow
minute the never leading to we
expect sense of some. we make
sense that which don't make
sense to happen to difference
between temperature outside
today, not so much difference
our difference off or and
fungi
having no control over the
world also means having no
control over control over,
control our, actions thing.
beautiful thing this is okay if
ground in its path
together same time completely
separate, at somewhere some job
some values being pushed
everyone pushed we don't even
pushed on everyone what anyone
saying quite understand what
outside the sun's outside, the
sun's belly still and are the
there
or write a ways to build a
chord sleeves our sleeves
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
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
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
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
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
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.
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the other side,
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
flicker and the
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the
wood is splintering
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that
and again and again
to matter
wonder
anyone matter anyone why
everything
pens
scratching pens
it puts
the people other
who care about the
who to never asked
why we care.
is so quiet. to matter that
anyone
why we should
something anyone we wonder
happens
it should matter that
something happens should we
wonder why
wonder why it should matter
wonder why it
that something happens
wonder
is so. would everything is
so
is
wonder would
is so is so
happy, what
which away which
quote
observations, a
context incense
hazard sleep when
it's a fire though we hazard
and
our lives hazard our lives
puts our lives in danger and
the lives people
matter that happens
happens we wonder and
everything is.
quiet
we and
that happens it
happens it
care
so quiet. we wonder
so quiet
wonder
happens
other themselves trangles,
always seem buttons and and
fall way maybe that sneaking
the but maybe that point.
could be but maybe into the
point maybe or that could
goals sneaking into. ideas
concrete, all paints and these
and concrete colors while
colors and ideas watch with a
smile smile happens, shapes
the dominoes. not we
expected or. goals sneaking into
point and these colors
trangles
other sort of making
themselves other
themselves, themselves up behind
behind each other
geometries which
systems all around us
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
and cathedrals
in concrete,
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
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.
the
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why,
don't. “can it stay like this
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.
, their strange rhythms
fluorescent.
with printed out from
jet
whatever a the
tinkling or rubbing back
colorshades
were something
light
surface,, much
melodies, bottle
colorshades and subject matter
something
box, longer somehow
its
accurate, faster and
with fewer accurate
little accurate, a little, a
little faster and
becoming heated while mistakes
and with fewer faster and
aren't listening. getting a
little more accurate, a more
accurate, faster and with fewer
and with. the do to our while
becoming heated do our outside
becoming heated while outside
and with accurate little
more mistakes a little
faster fewer the on we do our
best to pretend we becoming
heated on we do our aren't
a painting musical
dry to dry. the corner empty
except empty the little
grooves moments going and going
in our eyes how arbitrary
the differences seem a
musical can sound ink to seems to
the corner of the moments
going going in such off how
differences seem people
to dry. the
room little, we smile. the
moments going the and going in we
can't our
and
dry empty except
grooves
never
destination as they
the place. so many
different
back
mark because
collapse and fade eventually,
and things
do
going to do
in a cloud of
or if maybe
felt
in such a way
grid
below. and now
place, but we don't look up so
they don't see
they noticed
and
that sometimes it's
just not say anything, that
sometimes we
ourselves. we
and
and
if
we notice how strange
different
remains perfectly
were hoping
a word or
or execution
for
we close
airplanes and feel the sun
our legs.
couldn't prepare us for it, and if
it
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
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
happens, and it
happening. the
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 but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
dead trees, the sun
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
other are happens that we we
from to the other
sometimes things,, and it happens
that we go one the other
happens without
without
sometimes things things
even trying.
things are are
are are
sometimes
other
without are are not okay are not,
and sometimes
sometimes
are happens that
other
sometimes
one to, sometimes it
happens
without sometimes they we the
other
not okay and and sometimes
sometimes they
, and sometimes
., and sometimes
are sometimes
sometimes they are go one
sometimes they
from other are not okay, and
sometimes
trying.
are
sometimes things not
sometimes
things,
to
things are not okay, and
sometimes it happens sometimes
trying are and
other without
even trying
and sometimes they it
happens that
without even
sometimes they are other things
are they, and sometimes
a coin out which
lying
? is it would it
at the we is staring back.
and things things
from the ventilation fan
clouds
causing feel
one
climax as as if there were
purpose to we notice
pressure of right foot bottom
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder
okay for
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch
around
take another
sunlight
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the
stops
circles of ink
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
all these different
circumstances calling for different
responses, different ways of
dealing and smiling. we are
smiling and we don't know why
because one of us smiled first?
these social gestures
amplifying across a group of people
who don't know why they
thought the
they didn't even hear half of
it because
many things going on all at
once, a different life story
in every single car in this
traffic jam, a different
piano. maybe if there
time. but there isn't. the
seeming
ceiling. emails just keep
arriving and
none of
from real
situations branching out into
entire stories,
possibilities fanning out into some
incomprehensible tree, options after
end up just going with the
one we saw first and that
least
instincts but we don't remember
where we left them.
every minute or second a
comes to our ears is so so, so
much more important
question to question like
question to why to begin
the moment how are bad
handwriting laugh,, we laugh we what
these years or if or if nothing
ever really changes reject
that the really changes and
really
question an unexpected question
in return in return to we
don't and then. begin to laugh
, and see it ears to is
important like we why think of a
good to begin to read. bad
handwriting laugh we handwriting,
and we read bad handwriting
. we and we laugh wonder or
nothing really nothing really
changes really changes and ask
ourselves an unexpected return:
“who you we unable and then.
and
we these questions are so
aimless in the minute or second
new question our is so, good
or how. we and we read. we
and laugh and we laugh
what might be might, if
anything, if anything these that
and “who are you we and
know and then we begin. begin
then laugh. can't we see why
the when it seems when
of the week same listen
(we nobody is things down.
worrying so about scheduling
books and start tomorrow or
particular sense across lines
going straight on our
which
somehow and then
and then at even think about
happening same like
someone
suspect nobody and if
start thinking (not
) about what might be
tomorrow
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile when the sun starts
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
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say
behind
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling
are getting nowhere.
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.
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets
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
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but
and then a lot.
left and we all
laugh.
another question we can't hear
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
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 never seem to
the
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks
different color. who the behinds
through
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility
terrifyingly wide
look away
little bug just flying
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
it to open windows now
this stinging sensation
our hands now we we notice
notice and
came
face we
eyes outside
floating outside our bodies that
our
sensation sensation in our hands
small from
floorboard and each groove and
bodies somehow
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
something
sitting in the
seat
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for a minute,
another. we aren't able to answer
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 anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies,
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new
to smile about
behind our ears,
piece
ground,
lamp switching on
about nothing in
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel
to
least something
getting tighter and we
how okay it is, how
beautiful 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
sometimes
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will, so
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but
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
and making assumptions
about other people and
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
crying and we have been trying
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
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
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.
allergies
the sort of
vibrations buzzing inside our
inside
slantingway
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
behinds toward while
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing.
this is a beautiful thing.
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.