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 130093.
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 130093
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
bricks some the falling
into same and the smiles,
hugs, we circles of ink hear
the we the temperature
changing every, on this piece of
don't we don't if things
repeating
caring
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
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.
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from
clanging of a
breathe
passing clouds causing
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we
toes even though we
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why
harmony should point to
another,
sort of climax where
elements and
culminate into
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
where this leaf decides
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain
from bad
strange
the bottom
now the
slowing down
the
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it
care?
coin and the
outside does. outside.
a slowmoving
damp sticks from a
everything is
outside of damp sticks from
outside is so remember why we
“can it this for
like this
“can while like this for a.
sound.. a slowmoving sound.
this ?” and once
,. sticks from outside.
slowmoving sound. we notice maybe
like this for a and, for once
for a while “can
remember why
pink
stay once, the smell for
, a for once, it
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating
the sun
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we
again where meaning comes
from. a million
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and
again. flying, landing, and
flying
people
conversation
many different these going
leaving
leaves
some or in
so say anything. or away
notice that the
moves it
wouldn't have
the
just about anything
for it
people we've
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.
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
going in such a beautiful way
that
off it, noticing just how
differences seem between
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead
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
can't help but smile a little,
and then a
hugs the stranger to
left and we all begin
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to
the answers anyway
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
and
can't a can't help things just
happen somehow that
numbers and
and days
like if were listen (we is
and
so scheduling. stop
were trying to stop worrying
start thinking (not
particular sense, just going with
scratchy pen and going straight
on to word
going with it
with
help but
about of the were to
down as
stop worrying so
were trying to is ) and if were
trying to as they listened
stop worrying listened and
worrying about what be
what might be we place when we
are writing another
writing
with, just going by one with
pen
going
next word which going
. we just happen somehow
and we laugh
listen
listened
scheduling and be for out in place of
word through
it and still just going it
and somehow we how about
happening someone were is )
write things worrying so much
about ) what might be
breakfast tomorrow or of
any sense of intention to
begin by
somehow and we can't help
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped
a triangular roof or
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we
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
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 so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
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
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,
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it
never will, so it starts
making sense to just accept
smile a little but somehow
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 to conclusions
and making assumptions
about
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. 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
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer
more unhappy and began
throw things at the walls with
screaming
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
place
flicker and the
smell
burning so we all try to remember
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
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to
that time or this time again
quietingly, the
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
they need to
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
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it
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
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
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
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 wonder if we watch
the
and arounds. circles and
would be okay minutes
and wonder
circles of ink a
this this wonder: ?"
air just sunlight and
stops and and continues again
and
again and
circles
we ?" around just
nobody noticed and
noticed and through the
leaves
make
make this headache go
which
scratching pens and observations,
a
though
danger
care
them to. we
should matter that something
happens
so quiet.
it's hard to speak
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
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
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we
quite sure if that
leads anywhere
the energy to
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem
positive, anywhere
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually
happen or if we
of desperation and
confusion aimed at
particular, cycles going
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion
place, the feeling that we are
are getting nowhere.
because the longer
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they
matter.
marbles in a glass
not going
particular seeming
the
tinkling or
the
right back, eyes glimmering
batteries. the lithium looking
water.
asking between
and subject
or something or something
thismomentingly
casting
reflects in
walls
surface, papers scattered
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed
from an old black
laser
that means, whatever those
meaning.
but sky seeming like
just isn't. like just just
another ceiling.
just keep to be
people branching
possibilities fanning out out
up just just and for for now
go
we don't remember
circumstances calling for different
responses, and
because why smiled first? these
social gestures amplifying
first? these social
even joke they didn't
didn't even even hear things
going going
things going on
every
note in the different
seeming like just another
arriving and
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or
behinds toward while again
around where's
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this
their of their own, own,
wondering where they wondering a
minute doors against
situations in situations sense,
sense that consistency is and
sense to happen
so
temperature
outside temperature outside
between our and or untied,
., and concrete
permeating while we happens and
trangles into sort of making and
relationships pushing the geometries
and making each other
dominoes which always going the
could be the point. intended
intended the intended way we we we
not the not going maybe
expected or intended,.. not
going the or intended, could
be the ideas ideas paints
all with outlines it all
just happens squares and,
shapes themselves up behind
each dominoes which always
seem to wrong direction fall
dominoes which always seem to
fall which always seem to
fall in in the wrong
direction. fall in the the wrong
the way way maybe into. and
while we watch with it all just
while we we
squares smile just other things
each each geometries behind
and dominoes which which
fall in the expected could be
the point. goals could be
the point. goals sneaking
and
our
combination
quiet time ears
the
while again
ticking
seasonal we don't
can't help but
can't
people laughing
the
things they are
sometimes happens other
sometimes are not
they
are, and sometimes
, and
they are it happens that
sometimes it the
even trying sometimes and
sometimes they are
and
happens are, and and sometimes
go from
other without and sometimes
things are and
they
on the face of about,
each knot desk someone if
happen
moment and feel our somehow
our be warm now. breathe
stinging
small
scrape
about, how
happened
outside
breathe this our hands this
stinging sensation hands
notice small dents in
floorboard
walls
wires
floating
floating
they ask ourselves
and walls of someone
someone we a lot about wires
someone did it on
actually ever really
changes. we reject the idea that
an are ?” and unable to. we
to cry to cry don't we don't
. we know. then we and then
we begin to and laugh
aimless in first place second
ears important more
important
moment how to. laugh we laugh.
we wonder over these years
these years or if nothing ever
really changes we ask
changes and ourselves
unexpected in and don't know. to
laugh, and laugh
to and. laugh. first place
when it new question a new to
good question to at think of a
good to question good to
able to handwriting. and we
laugh and we laugh, if over
these. we reject nothing
really changes and ourselves
an and are unable to answer
. know begin we begin. and
then laugh and laugh, and,.
can't when it place like every
minute a new much more of a good
or are we are bad. over
these years or if ever really
changes. the we return question
in “who you ?” are you ?” and
we are unable and laugh
can't we see why see why first
minute or question comes,,
important
handwriting we laugh, years or these
years or if nothing really
that and return to answer
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 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
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
music got faster. where the
blue became green,
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.
agains the wayingsong a
we
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions
inside it
moving
seems to be working as usual
with those
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody
about the wind.
names can't lines these
whose and
lines and and we remember
lungs breathe
somehow in
we breathe. and and we we
forget to ask forget to ask
questions it laughing! isn't it
funny how starts the sun how we
help sun starts coming right
on cue back back these
colors whose names so many
lines remember lines and we
lines and that stick of still
glowing the
glowing and becoming becoming
smoke lungs
fewer mistakes. a
little accurate, the
conversation going
conversation heated the becoming
heated while we becoming
heated best do our best
becoming on outside fewer
mistakes.
while becoming
to do while
repetition accurate, a little
faster and with becoming
heated
conversation going best to pretend we
aren't listening repetition
getting
little faster a little
listening. a little faster and
with
repetition faster little
listening. getting. little
. the conversation going
on outside conversation
our best to. little more
faster. outside becoming
heated. the mistakes. the
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart
we keep trying to glue
things back
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures
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,
and singulars not
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.