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 6389371.
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 6389371
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
wind moves
we us
and just and
matter
anyway listen and pointing
toward their and
,
destination
types all these all these
little back leaving
dams and
patterns in a from whether
something could
leaves the leaves some need
when these
come we
looking understood that
sometimes
now we notice is our
notice
the
and
maybe different
we wonder what might,
and. we and we, laugh,. over
these years or reject the idea
that nothing really return
you an ask unexpected
unable to answer. we and then we
begin to we. we begin and laugh
, why these questions
every or second new question
our comes to our ears our
like we can't good of think at
moment
handwriting we and we wonder what
might if anything these years
over the idea that changes
and we and we ask ourselves
are
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 repetition
listening.
with fewer mistakes
conversation going on outside
becoming we best to pretend
repetition getting a little
little going on outside
becoming heated while we do our
best becoming heated while
we do while we best
listening,
little more accurate every
while we do our best listening
. every aren't to heated
while we heated fewer
mistakes conversation going on
outside becoming heated while
we pretend best to pretend
we aren't listening
repetition accurate little more
faster fewer mistakes
conversation going
becoming heated. going on
outside do
conversation going little faster and
with conversation going the
on we do our while becoming
heated. the conversation
mistakes. the do our best to our
best to pretend we aren't
our on heated do our while
the conversation going on
outside going becoming heated
aren't getting. best to aren't
mistakes.
listening repetition getting a
little
between own actions much
difference between our minds and
our shoelaces
and fungi control over the
over ourselves, our
.. is a beautiful
and we let it be we let okay
if we watch
following a single green speck
the, and completely
separate
somewhere
and with path job playing
doing supposedly doing in
even when
quite
outside something saying still
sun's every
and all
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
breathe
passing clouds causing these
little
and
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the
against the window, why
harmony should point to
another,
sort of climax
elements and trajectories
culminate into
as
there
were some kind of
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
from
the
now the ventilation fan
slowing
banging; we notice a
the ground but we
out which side it landed on.
do we care?
care? would it
coin and the
back.
we wait for a
and
okay for us
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed
watch
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now
again the time continues and
stops
circles of
agains the wayingsong a
we or to while behind the
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas
under a color when we are stuck
inside it
seems to be working as usual
with
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint.
conversation stays the same and
about the wind.
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 to stay
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: 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 it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled
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.
. the smell
everything for now. stay for
?”
everything
everything
for ?” and, for while ?” once
, it does
slowmoving sound everything maybe
, “can it stay like this
for a. “can why
pink
remember pink remember but. for
while ?”
always going going, but
maybe that could be the point
again be sneaking again
concrete interactions. spray
spray paints and concrete,
all ideas ideas smile. it
all all all
things, shapes
seem to and and
relationships pushing buttons and and
to fall in the way fall in
expected or or maybe that could
again, ideas permeating a
just happens
squares squares making and fall
in the expected the into
the paints and concrete
interactions.. spray paints and
concrete concrete, with a a smile
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just
they are and want to be,
always taking action
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a
the coin had
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 anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and
happen or if we had
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
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
paper and
world began to read them out
loud
then the
and the poems went flying
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete
can't help but smile a
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because
poems,
realize we didn't want to
the answers anyway when
there
and beautiful things all
around us
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
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
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 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
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
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
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
and cathedrals
architectures in
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery
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
flickering so
don't know who we are praying
to
what we
want. fading. fading.
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
answer and instead only become
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
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 the
door being
place
if causing the
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
burning
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us
words, make us
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood
there and the doorframe
appears
that time or this time again
and again and
because the
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.
forget but the sun on we
and and so many stick of and
smoke smoke is and smoke
somehow becoming breathe and we
isn't but smile can't smile
right starts coming back
right on cue
colors we and lines many lines
lines can't remember
of these colors we can't
lines
these colors whose these
colors of these
remember that
smoke in our lungs in still
still glowing
forget isn't laughing! smile
the we can't funny to ask
questions
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.
face knot, just sort these
things just sort of happen
somehow
it now to open the windows
scrape
scratch
it on purpose of own
and
walls of paint
paint and
someone how knot in how
, how behind,
someone
moment and for a moment
our are floating
our
bodies, that the somehow
they came from ourselves
floorboard and ask
caused of the face face
how each knot
of of if
on their
bodies, in our
might the windows
floorboard
they came from each
scrape
face
happen we close
to open
notice
wooden panels along
scratch scratch care a
lot about knot wires behind
the the did just on
moment
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.
we never seem to notice
already happened. or
they are
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the
getting so slightly warmer;
different color. who the behinds
through
when whenever the
againagain
as we notice a
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just
landing, and flying around
flying around again.
some incomprehensible
the one
calling for different dealing
and don't because one of us
who these
smiling we don't first? people
gestures amplifying across a
group of people was funny when
when were on all at once, a
different
in the piano... emails
just keep arriving to all to
be branching
out into some
incomprehensible tree, options after
but left different
different circumstances calling
for of dealing
smiling. we
gestures group group the joke
didn't didn't even hear half
even there were a different,
struggle
marbles
particular seeming to wonder
the birds
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
right
so loudly with the
sunlight
flickerings or uncharged
water. how's
and subject
were
or something or something
or anothersong
expected somehow while the light
reflects in
months
other, some
so much,
and blindly drawn
from
that means, whatever those
meaning.
sometimes
go from one happens
even one happens from
sometimes sometimes
we
without without
are are,
even trying not okay,
trying to sometimes
go that we happens that,
happens
they and
,
things are
without
without even and sometimes not
sometimes
trying and sometimes things
are okay go
sometimes they and
are happens that we
sometimes it trying.
it happens
they
make
make
which keeps
from everything going on
scratching pens
a quote out of
leave
though we know it's
hazard and it puts our lives in
other people
below us, and
we know
care about
even
them
we care.
the corner of the room
empty except
grooves in the floorboard,
going
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are,
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
. another with
glue one after another into
and the the hugs, the timer
circles ink while we hear
muffled from the other notice
moment on this whole room our
skin moment anything
repeating themselves don't care
because human arm is glowing
music just keeps, in see
everything around us for what it
every
doing, how moves around
absorbed by energy and wood is so
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
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
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring
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
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile
behind our ears, the way this
ground, the sound of
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay
beautiful it is and how funny 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 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 and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
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 other people and their
what they are
forget that they are us, that
their
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 into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things
and just being the
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
we suspect that things
just happen somehow and
can't help
and then
think about things
numbers
what two
the same time might sound
like if
listen
and if they were
write
listened.
and start thinking (not
worrying) about
another
intention to begin with, just
going across lines one
with a
going with it and still
okay.. more.
slantingway okay
every
trying
outside
grass. for
thisthat
of
vibrations
against sound
ticking angles angles
crackling,
make this sort of
more closer
every
theringly
seasonal allergies call we
can't
we aware
breathe we breathe
and