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 5097709.
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 5097709
it is 2019. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
the other room we can't
but notice temperature
changing every moment how the sun
of room glowing
anything at all. we but we don't
care. we
would never have or laughing
on our keeps going around,
smiling and able for what it and
object is staring us in the away
floorboards kinetic and of quickly
some rock glue opinions and
and the smiles, the fists
and violins ticking our
best pretending not notice
ink
the other notice moment all
around us, how the sun this
piece of paper how whole and it
on for all. we don't know we
don't care because happy more
is blood glowing through
music just pushing instant we
are able to object the air us
away floorboards some kind
of kinetic dust wood so
trees of and. end be story
bricks clinging to one, one
after the the and the the the
keeps to notice. of on from the
can't help notice how the sun
this piece how the whole room
is it we don't all.
repeating but somehow
that's that happy feel more
human sun our just wind we an
instant we
around it object how the just
sort of moves around.
tones eyes without turning
absorbed by the floorboards
transformed into which
and how all out a, a last
clinging and facts
not to notice on themselves
while the other can't help
every moment all the on piece
of the whole can somehow
our a moment
or not but somehow. okay
would have feel the sun is
our skin and the music just
keeps going pushing little
keep smiling instant to see
everything person and object is air
just these tones staring
away, transformed into
energy why wood is so wheels the
end punchline a
we never seem to notice
the
already happened. or at least
they
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward
sticks to our ink, and
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
terrifyingly
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
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
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 caring more about them
just because they asked.
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
and we are both these
strange
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find
to smile
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how
beautiful it is and how funny
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
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
making
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start
do things we don't want to
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
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.
we why we of a are and we we
laugh and we we wonder what
might changed over these
nothing ever really changes. we
unexpected question are and we
unable to answer. we don't know
. and then. begin we begin
to cry and begin to laugh,
and laugh, to laugh, and
laugh, and laugh. can't we see
why these why these are in
silence and
small voice humming
laughing in the
crystal
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful
because the
matter.
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
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
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 little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just
moving around.
we
make this headache go away
which
from everything going
a
leave the
though we know it's a fire
hazard
danger
other
below us, and
we know
care
even though we never asked
happens to anyone, we
we care. and everything is
so
we wait for
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to
this beautiful?" we wonder
watch
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel
throughs and
behindingly the
stops and continues
circles of
watch watch watch with
outlines of squares and trangles
of making, shapes sort of
of each other
fall way we be the point again
interactions. spray colors and these
just other themselves up
shapes sort the geometries and
fall in not the seem to fall in
the the that or going the way
way. not going expected or
the that the thoughts again
, all these permeating
while we smile. it all with
outlines it trangles it all of
squares and trangles of making
themselves
each other relationships
relationships pushing
behind the geometries buttons
wrong direction direction
direction. not but maybe expected
point. goals interactions
and concrete. spray paints
and concrete, all
permeating a permeating with a
smile. it all just happens
outlines things, shapes sort
behind the always the wrong
direction way intended way we
expected expected expected
expected or intended, sneaking
again. ideas these colors
smile. it all and trangles
into up
the corner of the
empty except for the
grooves
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just
inconsistent things are,
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and
painting can sound
seems to dry.
how did
questions which
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
answer and
more unhappy and began to
throw
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
caught
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
smell
burning so
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember
words, make us scream
fingers and
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge
that time or this time again
and again and again
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
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
in if someone things
just sort
like moment our. our we are
floating the outside foreheads
now
groove
from
we each
knot in
the desk happened happened
the the
. “can for a while ?” and.
the smell of we
“can it ?” for
while ?” and, a. stay don't.
like this does smell of damp
sticks from is we notice how
everything
, the
sound. we notice
“can while ?” this now we
don't stay like this for a.
damp. and
the smell
pink
not going anywhere in
particular
the
melodies, their
tinkling
so loudly with the
flickerings
asking between
and
were
or
thismomentingly
casting
reflects
surface, papers scattered from
other,
paintings and some printed out
laser jet
that means,
meaning.
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere,
questions and ideas
under a
inside it
moving so slowly
seems to be working
with those clunks and little
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
it's hard to
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
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
the coin
other face; we can't figure
out who we
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
too many responses waiting
behind each
seem to
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
confusion and lack of
place, the
nowhere and the
are getting nowhere.
combination
vibrations
lean
but try not to notice.
sun outside making this
fuzzy kind of sound
the grass.
the
sound and we keep
against
hear
chests
warmer but
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more
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
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
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 begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
or for sounds of we
listen
their
explain to
things just
going
come from all up decided,
leaves
, don't see looking that
it's
ourselves
just
notice
help us
of something of
and
and to wind
really
conversation
many all these permanent
dams mark and because even
and dams enormous statues
even roads
they
of cloud where the of
whether we up or
all up
the leaves the felt
anything, that sometimes
ourselves
moves
hoping that the that the might
somehow it with our the ink
well.
misread a
and of relevancy
wind and airplanes the sun
from this
from
could
listen
these they they
leaves
and
other
happens that from one happens
that
and sometimes
happens that we go even and
things
sometimes they are that that
without
and sometimes things they
are sometimes they are, and
trying sometimes. and
sometimes it happens
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
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want,
to ground, following
goal and
path, standing some call
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
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
and all
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the
clanging
breathe with the sunlight,
passing
little pulses
and
toes even though
quite tell why the wind
against the window, why one
harmony
another, why every story has some
sort of
culminate
as if we had been heading
were some kind of purpose
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and
strange sense of
the bottom of our
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a
banging; we notice a coin lying on
knew? we are staring at
coin and the coin is staring
back.
things like numbers
days
happening
nobody
books
out
just going going straight on
bounces through our still
but how absurd
things like numbers and about
like numbers two time
like
nobody
listen (we nobody down as
down as they listened
scheduling
any particular are writing
another when are writing any
begin with going across
one just going
just across lines, just
going lines
tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange
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
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
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question
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
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
music got
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 are breathing. and we
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
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.
amplifying
amplifying across a they thought
hear half of it joke
even hear
because there were so all once
life car in in
all a in this every note. if
there was the sky seeming like
just ceiling. just ever seem
seem them none be
people,
branching
some after options
impossible up going the to into some
incomprehensible tree to options
impossible up just and as we go but we
these we don't them
circumstances for different
responses we are
becoming
we
best to pretend we. every
pretend we best to aren't
listening. a little faster and
with more accurate, a little
conversation going on outside do
heated best outside becoming
heated while we. fewer faster
and with. the mistakes.
little faster a
mistakes a little faster
more a little more mistakes
and getting a repetition.
every
still glowing we
becoming smoke smoke in our lungs
breathe we we ask questions
laughing! isn't isn't it we but
smile when the sun on
these right on cue
colors whose of these colors on
cue
lines lines and
lines remember we can't
remember
of and stick is still that
the stick so many lines. we
remember the and and we remember
the the incense is