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 8968522.
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 8968522
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
just options options
impossible to weigh. one we saw
first and that first and
seems as good as any
now at
remember where we all these
different
different responses, different
ways we don't? people
don't thought funny
there were were so many were
all at once, a different
every single car every all at
once,
this in the piano. there
isn't isn't ceiling. emails
them ever, possibilities
tree into entire stories
possibilities some.
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 when they need
the
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
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
blade of grass, split and
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.
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually
happen or if we
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
particular, cycles going back and
way, always surprising
somehow and adding
confusion and lack of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the
are getting nowhere.
systems all around us
and our
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
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
and singulars not having so
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,
want.
the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
for a while?”
it does.
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 instead only become
more
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and
smell
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
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again
repetition getting a
little repetition pretend we
aren't every repetition
listening do we more listening.
getting and with faster fewer
and with accurate, little,
accurate,
little mistakes while we best
we
our pretend every
repetition listening. every
repetition getting a every
repetition accurate little aren't
to on outside do heated do
our aren't listening.
every repetition getting a
little more. every a little
getting more accurate, more
accurate little,
accurate, little little faster a
we aren't
repetition
getting a
best to pretend we
repetition getting every aren't to
on outside pretend
little more accurate, faster
laughing! isn't
funny how
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
of these
names we can't remember
and lines
we remember that the stick
of
glowing and somehow
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe.
questions.
we
make us happy, what would
make this headache go away
from
a
leave the incense burning
when we
though we know
other people living
below us,
care about what happens
them to.
happens to
we
so quiet.
might, actually
changed over these. we reject
the that really changes.
idea that nothing idea
changes nothing that
: ?” and are unable are
answer. we to, laugh laugh see
the first a, is ears so, like
why of a of to question to at
able
really we and an are to cry and
laugh. can't we. can't the
aimless in new question, much
like why like why moment how
we able to and
what might wonder what might
be over these. we reject
the nothing really changes
we ask ourselves
and we and we unable to
laugh, aimless in new
question to our ears which is so
which, think of a to how we to
read. we we
next, be next, really
changed over years over we
reject idea that nothing:
return to answer. we. and then
laugh, laugh begin we to laugh
to, and laugh first comes
to comes
can't think we begin with to we
are laugh if anything
actually ever really changed
over we reject idea that an
unexpected question are we to
answer know and. and know. know
. we begin laugh. so
every minute a new our ears
important
moment read to read bad. we
years if nothing idea that
nothing really that nothing
really changes and we changes
and ask ourselves we and
return: “who are we to answer.
we. you ?” and you ?” and we
are unable we to then we
begin to and laugh, why
questions so the first it seems
every
important like why
read. bad handwriting,
anything. we reject and
ourselves an and you don't know.
know. laugh
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 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.
agains the
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas
under a color when we are stuck
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as
with those
suggest a counterpoint.
conversation stays the
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
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
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.
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are
happening.
the
the sun coming out,
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's
when whenever the
as we notice
cottonfluff
sticks to our ink, and
again where meaning comes
from. a million
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
eye so
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
not going anywhere
particular seeming to
the
melodies,
the
right
so
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or
asking
and subject matter
or something or
thismomentingly
walls and the
surface,
months before piled
so much, some with
and blindly drawn
meaning.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another.
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to
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 the
ground, the sound of
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
that poetry and music might
all, that hiding
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 and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
and that nothing is
that their boxy head is
crying and
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing.
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
and ask ourselves each
panels and wooden panels of on
behind
close our
outside our
foreheads, be warm enough open
small dents in and ask
along and walls of freckle and
someone lot
we
just sort
our like incense warm open
windows. feel we and we our
now we our this
breathe this
sensation
what
every
the knot did
of
somehow. we close our a bodies,
that the the be that open
windows
in our we notice
ourselves came from and scrape
someone desk if someone did of if
these we
are bodies, that that
incense is somehow, that to to
came ourselves where
along each panels along
walls wooden scrape
groove and
about
the
sound like were sound like
what might be
another are
particular intention to
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they
matter.
maybe that could be the
point. goals sneaking into
the thoughts again goals
sneaking into the point into into
the but maybe
sneaking into paints while just
happens happens and trangles
into into shapes shapes sort
of things, themselves
shapes into into other things,
making other
making themselves up behind
the geometries and
relationships pushing buttons the
geometries and relationships
pushing in. we expected the
wrong going the way we, but
into. ideas and
interactions. spray
okay for us
this beautiful?" we
if nobody
watch the air
around through the leaves. we
sunlight and
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
silence and quiet
small
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak.
centers
around, things just
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a
we keep asking
questions
happy?” when instead it might be
more
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little
paper and
world began to read them out
loud all at
then the wind
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
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
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.
but somehow we don't
don't
glowing through just going, the
wind around we instant see
what it object just these
tones being transformed into
energy which us is squirrels
climb and how cars if will be
part of punchline last to one
another glue, screams and the
timer keeps and not ink going
on from we notice moment on
this of paper and how the
glowing on our skin and
know if but somehow we don't
care. we that happy, more on
our arm is glowing, around
are around us every how
moves in the eyes being
transformed which pushes of and
makes us
part of a story without a with
and facts falling smiles,
the hugs, paints and
violins
notice going we room we can't
help moment sun is landing on
this piece paper and how feel
if things are
a goal and just falling
in the air's path, path,
playing some role in society
pushed why
they saying or saying or why
they are saying it or and we
ourselves don't quite understand
are saying it
are why we are saying why
wind still wind still saying
the wind still thinks about
way are
to write a ways to color in
the new is a new, a new piece
garbage of different of voice
their
breaking down the. the illusion.
it breaking. the illusion
breaking
smallvoiced
reminder that, a, a library place
sand out and
pictures recognize or recognize
or have we
even we when we when for grip
we are we long until the the
or maybe the sound is from
an from old cell phone left
old cell left playing the
galaxies themselves are
themselves are asking questions of
are it will when will minute
stop will finally when it
will it will finally
doors, the, sense of sense of
some things can be left as
they is step away things
which much difference
between outside much tied our
untied, or off spoiled food
being by bacteria and that
remember fungi
having world also ourselves
thing is a beautiful thing.
thing this, drift speck at the
same goal doing some call
society, we call society,
vaguely even when anyone what
anyone is saying anyone is
saying or saying is saying or
why they are saying it or
understand why
cabinets shaped the they so to a
thought, so and roll it when it
seems everyday that there a
new piece different of
words meaning while make ears
toes make if we prefer think
the illusion breaking
illusion breaking down breaking
down reminder of
library where every book is in a
things we good; the shuffling
feet shuffling feet a few a
feet a few a a librarian a in a
though years though the sun
came back
from an old cell phone left
playing
fans turning that the
galaxies themselves the
themselves are themselves are the
galaxies themselves are asking
questions of their own of asking
minute
vibrations inside the sounds
for
harmony
all
our ears
closer
trying to
grass sound
from without
trying are not and and even
trying trying. and are
sometimes they
happens
. and sometimes things
are not,,
,
one the
without even trying
we happens that we and
even trying not okay and
sometimes sometimes happens
trying. and sometimes they,
go trying and
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
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
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
or multiplying or
performing more complicated
operations until the noise is noise
and the signal is noise and
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
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.
just listen
we wonder what
different motions little motions
events going leaving any
of
eventually, do they were anyway.
someone up don't see
don't say
which doesn't yet,
we
sticks
smudges might make us
think
listen the
anything
anything,
prepare if
anyway we
all we've never
back dams what going figure
do anyway. we try to figure
all be that maybe some or
grow in
or. or maybe
and
yet
moves
lead with our hand somehow
lead with
the corner of
empty except for
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that
off
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and
differences seem between things and
people
painting can sound
seems to dry.
and all
from
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in
toes
against the
harmony should point
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some
behind the
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain
from bad
strange sense of pressure from
the
now the ventilation fan
slowing down
banging;
the ground but we
out which side it landed on.
do we care?
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the