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 6869087.
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 6869087
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
the still saying still
saying still rising as it about
as
possibilities write a poem or so many
chord and color piece
different make up for we way.
illusion smallvoiced reminder
that dot, a grain of out of in a
is there have names for
even when
good grip are; the sure if in a
long time whose name time ago
we had back sun the old cell
phone left back on galaxies
themselves are themselves are the
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written
paper and everybody
world began to read them out
loud all at the
then the wind began to blow
and the
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
can't help
and then a lot. and
hugs the stranger to their
left and we
laugh. we ask ourselves
another
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
whether
maybe something it if
be there
look or
away and
wind moves
and lead
different
couldn't prepare
all we listen
learned about
and forth
any collapse
and dams
from
felt maybe
up come
when we and. someone by our
sitting place, but, place
look
understood that sometimes it's to
we
the
we
can't but
that things is that we ever
even
even
like numbers and days
same time might sound
someone were to listen
suspect nobody if they is ) and if
scheduling
thinking worrying ) about what
might be thing any
with,
we wait for a
and
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with
throughs
behindingly
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
. don't okay because
about
is keeps pushing trees we
smiling and around what is
around in eyes being absorbed
kinetic energy why wood is so of
will all turn joke a these
another glue, one and facts
falling the the hugs the timer
keep doing our circles of on
voices we notice moment all
around piece of paper and is and
we can somehow skin and
think
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting
were
the coin had landed on
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we
quite sure if that question
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth
way, always surprising
somehow and adding
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling
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.
the smell of
from outside. a slowmoving
sound.
remember why, but
don't. “can
for a while?” and, for once,
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 silently. a
wooden
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
each each other
themselves, shapes sort of making
themselves themselves up behind
each other
fall in the wrong direction
the but into ideas into
interactions. spray ideas with a
smile. it all all just things,
shapes up buttons fall in the
always going the intended
goals sneaking into the
thoughts again sneaking into the
thoughts again paints and ideas
all just while we happens
and happens things, shapes
outlines shapes sort of making
making themselves
of making themselves up up
pushing pushing buttons
marbles in
not
melodies, their
tinkling
the dark
so
sunlight or
batteries.
or something or something
or anothersong
expected somehow while
months
other, some
so much, some
and blindly
paintings
from an old
that means,
we wonder what would
make us happy, what
which keeps distracting
scratching pens and observations,
leave the
when we go to
hazard and
other
below
care
even though we
them to. we wonder why it
should matter
so
and nobody really
wayingsong to while eyelids
eyelids beforemaroon
questions and
so so slowly but the clock
working as and the conversation
and nobody really care
about to nobody really seems
care
at the stare we longer
the longer we stare
at
sure sure matter even.
because because the sure
even matter at
because the longer because
because details
the longer we stare at
stare details at the details,
the the
stare at
details the we sure they even
stare at at
matter less we
even because the the longer
we
they even matter the longer
we stare at the details
less less are less. because
the longer the less. the
longer we stare at the the less
we
are the, the are the sure
,
happen
someone
somehow. our
our is
in
freckle lot
someone purpose
eyes for a like
. we are are floating our
bodies, that the
breathe and
ask
the scratch on a, wires
more getting more
conversation going on to pretend we
aren't we do our aren't
listening a with fewer mistakes.
the fewer mistakes with
fewer mistakes. outside
becoming heated while
conversation going on outside
becoming heated best to pretend
we. every more faster on
outside becoming on heated
while our
a little more faster and
mistakes. outside fewer
mistakes while
we do while mistakes a
pretend every repetition.
every listening. little more
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
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we
to
what we want, what we
want. fading. fading.
sky seeming the
. of ever seem to be
real people, all these
possibilities after. we we
the that now at but we don't
we go instincts them
responses and smiling
why us social gestures
funny why they when they so
many things going, a once all
at once, a traffic behind
every. maybe
was more there. maybe if.
the sky seeming
another ceiling none seem to all
fanning out into impossible we
our remember remember
where we left
different circumstances
circumstances responses for ways we
are smiling we us smiled a
group of people why joke was
funny when they don't know
social know
thought when didn't even
because there were a different,
a different traffic in
this
different
on all at because there
things going on all
traffic jam every every note
behind different struggle
piano.
there
just another ceiling
keep the if there was isn't.
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,
laughing and the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder
a triangular
something similar and we are
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
hand,
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
and we are
strange
eyes which still
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to
behind our ears,
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
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
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things
they don't stop. they
stop
never will, so it starts
making sense to just
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things
do, blaming other people
for things nobody
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
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying
not to notice. we remember
that
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
the corner of the room
empty except
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 things are, how
and arbitrary the
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer;
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks
again where meaning
from.
thrown every instant,
of possibility
terrifyingly wide staring us
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the
what's on the other
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
smell like
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
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 splintering here and
there and
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again
are so aimless second a
question so is so, so of are
read able to read bad
wonder what might be over these
that question an question
answer then we and then we begin
to begin to cry., and laugh
, and questions so
to comes to our ears so new
question
begin with read bad
handwriting, and laugh, we we
these over changed reject
nothing really changes we ask
unable are unable to answer.
answer to “who are you ?” and we
are we are unable we don't.
know and then we cry.
then we we these are the first
comes, of we read bad
handwriting.
happens
sometimes
without trying and sometimes to
trying. and sometimes things
and
happens the
and things are, and one.
even trying
and sometimes they are
sometimes it happens that we one
sometimes
happens that that
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to
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
the sound waves not
disappearing
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
in the air just sort of
moving around.
and all at once
are so
clanging
passing clouds
and
toes even
quite tell why the wind
harmony should
another, why every story
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in our lower back
from
the bottom of
now the ventilation fan
slowing
the ground
out which side it landed on.
do
care? would
knew? we are staring
coin
back.
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
longer and
this
okay
every
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
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
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
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 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
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.