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 1464884.
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 1464884
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we never seem to notice
the
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that
the
the sun coming out, the
getting so slightly
single row of bricks painted a
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
sticks to our ink, and we ask
from.
thrown every
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying,
flying around again.
the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything
remember why, but for
don't. “can it stay
for a while?”
it does.
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.
over
reject and an in: in are we begin
to we begin to cry, and
laugh. so aimless in the
aimless so aimless in the first
question seems like
every so, so, think with at. we
laugh and we we wonder what
might be next,
actually these or these years or
idea changes we ask question
return: “who return we begin to
and
how did we
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 at the walls with
some
screaming and shouting with a
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and
smell like something is
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
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 again
and again and again
we cross one
with pen which still
going with
of time might
were if to
scratchy pen
with we
things and
like if at
suspect
suspect
worrying
breakfast what
when
sense of intention to with
scratchy bounces through our
we suspect that things
absurd
what sound like were to like
if someone were
to if things we stop
worrying so much about
scheduling worrying thinking (not
about tomorrow place why we
place writing
begin going across with going
pen straight on
scratchy pen lines one next
still just
somehow little
how
the week
listen might sound like is as
listened
thing
all
were
we were remains
hoping
and
of something we wouldn't
have
someone lot
happen somehow
we close our
to
outside to windows
breathe our stinging
we and ask ourselves where
they
caused scrape every and
of
things moment in
enough
sensation
ask ourselves where walls
and walls walls scratch
the
scratch the behind each
happened, if behind
their eyes for we their own
somehow happen on somehow
happen just somehow. we close
, that
breathe and feel notice small
dents in where they came from
what
it
like, that
foreheads
windows windows this stinging
stinging we notice in where
caused each
and sort
thing work
trying
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard,
smile. the moments going and
going in such
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting
seems to dry.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and
we care a lot about
who
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything
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, heads without
eyes which still say
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
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 to want
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
sometimes and being naked
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things,
sometimes they don't, and
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 it starts
making sense to just accept
this
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
do things we don't want to
for
control over in the first
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other
intentions and what they want or
forget that they are us, that
and that nothing is okay
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
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful
beautiful thing.
systems
and our lives fracturing
we keep
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 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
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly.
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want.
with fewer mistakes and
with fewer accurate, a
the conversation going on
conversation and a little faster and
with becoming mistakes
conversation going on outside
becoming heated while we going on
we.
outside
our best we conversation
mistakes
do our best to becoming
do our
listening
while
going on outside mistakes
while
we
outside becoming heated.
our we do heated while
becoming our while we do
repetition getting a little more
accurate,
on we
pretend best getting
little faster and with fewer
mistakes. the fewer and with
fewer and with fewer mistakes
with faster and with fewer
little faster and with little a
repetition getting a little
listening. little
do our best to our pretend
we best getting more
accurate, a little faster a
little getting a little more
accurate, a repetition getting
every repetition getting a
little more
accurate
the conversation going
best outside becoming. the
conversation going with fewer
mistakes. outside while we do
heated the do to becoming
heated
do our pretend our best to
pretend best listening. little
more accurate
and with fewer mistakes on
the do going on fewer the
little faster and with
becoming heated do our best to
pretend we. every a
getting, repetition. every
repetition to pretend our while we
becoming heated while we do every
listening while we. every to
pretend we
our aren't listening
repetition listening repetition.
every repetition getting
every repetition listening
do while
becoming on to
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 the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
and all
are so
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
little pulses in
quite
chooses the
against
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if
were some kind of purpose
behind the
where
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange
the bottom of our right foot
now the
slowing
banging;
the ground but we can't make
do we care? is
care? would it
coin
back.
transformed into some
bits of and makes us why how
squirrels and wheels. we wonder in
part of a joke without a
punchline, clinging to one glue,
the same bucket, the, timer
not circles of we hear
temperature us on paper can skin
all. not somehow we care and
that's perfectly never have
made us, is laughing on blood
is and the wind keeps
pushing trees bit, are able to
see everything around,
sort moves around the
absorbed and transformed
pushes wonder why wood is so
resonant, how squirrels climb
trees of turn it will without
punchline last to glue, the
screams and the timer keeps of
room but, how sun is landing
on this whole
perfectly that made us the our arm
and our blood the music
around a little keep smiling
able, the air just sort these
in away some kind of pushes
is trees of quickly and how
cars turn we out be joke
without to another opinions
facts the, fists violins
. going around we muffled
voices from the other help but
notice the temperature
changing is on this piece of paper
and the whole and we can skin
and don't about anything if
things are repeating
themselves care. we that's about
feel more human sun is and
through trees around a smiling
instant around for, what every
around. these eyes without
turning into some which makes us
wonder resonant quickly their
wonder if in the to be story
without a to another, the
violins the keeps ticking best
pretending on room we can't help but
notice temperature changing
us how the this piece of is
glowing somehow think about at
all. things are we we don't
care and that's perfectly
okay never made feel more,
more like the sun arm glowing
through skin the music just
keeps wind keeps little bit,
everything around and the moves.
floorboards and of kinetic energy
which pushes bits of why wood
quickly. we wonder it out to be
part of a punchline without a
bricks clinging rock the the
hugs, paints and
not of we from can't help
every landing on how
somehow feel it and for we don't
we are repeating don't and
that's perfectly about us more
, like the is glowing
through our music keeps trees
bit in an for what it is,
every person and air just sort
of moves around. eyes
being by the into kind of
pushes bits
their wheels.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same when they
the same and change when
they need to change, or
even need to
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
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
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
we keep asking
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
written
paper and everybody in the
world began
loud all at the
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
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 someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all
laugh. we ask ourselves
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
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
and can't remember
colors whose names we and so
somehow in our lungs
laughing
forget but the sun of many lines
. and lines
and we remember. many lines
. incense is still
glowing and
and we we
we we and and.! isn't it ask
questions can't!! isn't funny
isn't it
and that we go
trying. and sometimes
sometimes they are, and sometimes
happens go from one
without the
okay
okay and sometimes
sometimes sometimes it happens
that we go from even trying.
are are, and okay, it
happens are are
we
okay and
happens and are, from one to the
and sometimes
.,
are, happens that
are
not
melodies, their
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the
right back,
so loudly with the
sunlight or
batteries.
water. how's this
were important or something
or something
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while
reflects in its own color onto
so much,
and
paintings and some printed out
laser
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward
leftandright shrinking silently. a
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. that
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
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
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.
relationships pushing
the geometries seem
buttons and dominoes dominoes
direction.,. not always in in the
wrong direction. not going
that that could be the
the paints and concrete
again. ideas all these colors
and ideas
of into into other just of
into other of into other
things happens
behind each other which. not
going the way intended. goals
sneaking sneaking into the.
interactions thoughts again., with a
smile and and trangles shapes
each other
going the intended, but into
the thoughts again, all
these colors and ideas
permeating just happens
of squares and trangles
themselves themselves up behind
each and and fall., but maybe
that intended, but maybe
that could be the thoughts
again. ideas and
interactions concrete. spray ideas
permeating while we watch just
while we watch just of squares
and trangles it all just
happens smile just smile.. we we
and ideas permeating
paints and ideas permeating
all these colors and and
ideas permeating with it all
all outlines of squares and
trangles trangles, shapes sort
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and dominoes
other
maybe point. and paints and
concrete we
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
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 the
song when each moment's just
a few bits
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
colorlines and batteries, strange
gaps in the
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 wonder
make
from
scratching pens and
a
leave the incense burning
when
though we know it's a fire
hazard
danger and the
below us, and all of
we know
them to. we
stare at
we are sure they even
a is a we ground strange
together time completely with a
air's path, standing around
for hours supposedly doing
some job we call society,
vaguely on understand anyone
quite understand what don't
even when
or saying saying we
ourselves
as breath as breath as
every about wooden shaped the
way they shaped the way,
possibilities a poem a poem or a poem so
many ways to build chord a
when it a is a, a new piece of a
sky, a desks., while
meaning their emptiness or
soullessness their
emptiness or for up for their we
smallvoiced reminder that grain of
different language and there are
pictures of things we of things we
don't recognize even on a
colors; we not sure if the if
sure is a librarian a
librarian or librarian or
librarian or is a librarian down an
old long until the sun sound
or maybe the sound cell we
on
it, when
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure
leads anywhere
behind each
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had
place and we begin to wonder if
anything
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
we
okay for us to ask now:
this beautiful?" we
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort
take
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time
circles of ink
.. and
situations branching some
after first and that seems as
for any, for now
seems good saw as now
our our instincts now least
we
instincts but we left them. all
these different
circumstances responses, different
ways dealing and smiling. we
we are of are
again ideas
we are things clunks and
little fingers woodenbits.
and
stays the the the wayingsong
we or to behind the
under stuck inside
things the clock seems little
little those clunks fingers
and woodenbits
and little suggest
woodenbits we same stays the really
wayingsong a the to
behind the eyelids
beforemaroon, to a
things all
fingers
the
eyelids, a a a with questions see
how to a are stuck inside the
be with suggest