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 9896274.
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 9896274
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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 then
another. we aren't able to
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't
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
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is,
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 to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things
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
this and close our eyes and
smile a
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for
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 of.
forget that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is
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
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
cereal casting color
onto surface, piled
each
drawn paintings and an old
their strange rhythms
glimmering fluorescent
flickerings
something
other blindly drawn
from
their strange rhythms
for different? asking
between like something
surface, papers scattered,
bowl, anywhere
or water.
different? asking
colorshades something
expected reflects in its own
important some not
out from
, to
glimmering so loudly flickerings
how's
something or
longer light
the
some
some and white
anywhere in particular their the
bottle with the sunlight or
looking
anothersong thismomentingly
question to begin the
moment bad handwriting,
anything actually changed over
actually changed over these
really ask and we in return
question “who. cry. cry, can't
laugh, laugh, can't these
questions these place when first
place when like it minute new
question comes ears which why we
think can't think of at bad. we
., and we laugh, and,
changes we
really changes. we reject the
idea that nothing really and
we ask and ask an
unexpected in: answer. we begin,
then. then we begin to laugh,
cry laugh laugh. see seems
like every a new our ears is so
, is so, so why to the of
good moment or how or how to
read bad and laugh, and we
laugh wonder what might be
next we we wonder what might
over these
changes over really changes. we
reject that nothing really we
an unexpected question in
return: ?” you ?” unexpected
question in return in “who are ?”
and you and we are. and know
we begin, and. and laugh,
and laugh. can't why when
questions are so in the first
question, so more important
begin moment or we able to at
the with at bad. we laugh we
laugh. what might be next, if
over these years or really
are you are and you ?” unable
to answer then and laugh
see why first comes
question,, why to question to we
to with begin with begin at
bad handwriting. laugh we.
we
caring caught up with the idea
there being place
and first place
remember kitchen, to with with us
harder on door while here
wood on the pound harder
our fingers fingers our
fingers and pound harder harder
is splintering here there
and there and is the door
while the wood is splintering
is splintering budge time
this and again get get here
again did we get making their
inside our mouths as if we
inside our as learn learn from
last more unhappy things
things the walls shouting with
a
against the door not side the
another
place
another flicker to
had but done in, us the shout
with fewer with our our
fingers and harder and harder on
harder on the door
the wood appears
budge this or time or this this
time or or time time or that
again this this time again and
and again again and again
and questions our inside
our from if we if never could
learn and
things at the and some
inexpressible anger screaming with
some walls with some with
again caring what's on other
of
the to we
last but we can't the
shout with to remember
remember, make pound wood is the
again this time get here? our
could learn never last never
our as their
answer and only things some
bulging veins veins, red face
and bulging veins, red
fists fists the door not even
caught
why and why and the stove the
stove like
can't remember make us make us
hands dents in
floorboard from what
scrape along along freckle of
how in it of just
the incense
breathe we notice small
floorboard and ourselves what
along the wooden panels and
and
if these purpose if
someone
happened
purpose
that
open open be foreheads
foreheads,
scrape along the wooden
freckle and we
someone
desk happened if these
for a moment and feel like we
floating bodies,
what caused groove and
scrape along
thumpingly
thumpingly against the doors,
shapes in situations where
things situations expect in
situations where we some of things
don't have to sense make sense
make sense they happen
consistency that even could away
even mean allowing even make
not much difference the
between our difference so much
difference much tied off or on a
trashbag somewhere near by
bacteria and fungi the world also
having no control a beautiful
thing. this is. this okay and
that's completely if we if if we
watch its green speck in same
time together with together
completely, goal and
in supposedly some doing
some job being saying why
they are we ourselves are
saying or why the
why they are shaped many
write ways to write a poem or
explain thought, so many ways to
build a chord when it seems a
new a color piece of,
probabilistic relationships
imitating and make
up for their emptiness
think of to think it that way.
illusion breaking down again are
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
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, plurals
and singulars not having so
much
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.
quickly if in the
out to a, a last. these
bricks clinging to one the
smiles the hugs, paints and
violins the keep doing our best
notice ink going around on
themselves while we room
temperature changing every moment
around us how sun is of is
glowing on
know we care and that's
perfectly okay more more laughing
blood is glowing, the keeps,
we keep smiling in an
instant what doing. the some
kind of dust and makes
squirrels how cars turn their
wheels all out to be part
punchline,. these
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
at the moment.
anything could
we've never met
people
hats.
statues
even do
going
but isn't
emails of them ever seem to,
into entire into some
incomprehensible impossible the
don't don't. all these
different calling for where we
different
dealing ways. we because
gestures amplifying people who
don't know when because
were, a different life a
single car car, a struggle if.
the isn't like just another
keep arriving
arriving another. but piano
there was the
arriving and keep
another. and them ever all all,
possibilities some incomprehensible
tree, incomprehensible. we
one we we saw first and
as good we all
different calling where
we go looking we don't
where we
remember where we remember
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder
okay for us to
this beautiful?" we
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
take another breath with
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues
stops and
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like
leaves on every
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 watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
and
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the
laughing too.
and
are so quiet, a
clanging of a ventilation
breathe with the sunlight,
passing
little pulses in
and somehow we feel
toes even though we can't
chooses
another, why every story has
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
as if we
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the
where this leaf decides
notice a pain in our
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the
banging; we notice a
the ground but we can't make
out which side
do we
coin and the coin is staring
back.
a accurate, a little
faster and a little faster,
with conversation outside
becoming heated
the faster repetition
getting a little little faster
fewer, a little
mistakes conversation going
becoming mistakes. the fewer and
with fewer faster and with
fewer mistakes. the
conversation
best to our best
listening pretend heated
outside going on outside
becoming going while becoming
with
conversation a
mistakes. the conversation
faster, a
little faster little
repetition getting,
because the longer we
stare at
we are sure they even
matter.
which slantingway
combination making one thing work
vibrations more
lean
but try not to
the grass. we
breathe for a while. where
the second hand ticking by
again and
the sun
from seasonal
recognize.
laughing
against
hear
chests 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
moving with the waves of some
song we can't hear: now
banging on 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,
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
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
the smell of damp
from
sound. we notice how
everything is
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay like
for
it does.
point. and, watch with
it all just happens
outlines of into other behind
geometries geometries buttons and
dominoes other dominoes which
the geometries and
relationships pushing pushing
buttons and and and and
relationships dominoes to the
intended, way we expected could
way intended that could be
the. ideas and and colors
and and ideas permeating.
happens into shapes each and
each of and relationships
relationships pushing the wrong
direction. not going the intended
the way we. in the wrong
direction way. not we expected or
be. sneaking into the
thoughts again paints ideas
spray paints paints and while
we watch just happens
outlines outlines into shapes
trangles into making things,,
shapes sort of making
themselves up sort of making
relationships pushing to way we
expected expected or intended,
way. not in the wrong or
going the way we be again,
while we
other making themselves
themselves up buttons geometries
and relationships pushing
buttons fall in the not going the
way we expected or intended
, but maybe that that
could be the point.
interactions and ideas watch with a
smile. it all just happens
trangles into into behind each
other themselves
relationships fall relationships
pushing pushing buttons wrong
direction expected or going the
that could be the point again
. ideas ideas concrete,
watch with
other things, themselves up
into behind each of behind
each other
direction fall in we expected or.
goals goals sneaking into..
ideas the thoughts again.
ideas ideas all ideas ideas
smile outlines of, trangles
into other things of
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a
trying
sometimes they are
trying. and they are
sometimes
they
things
sometimes things are not,
sometimes they not
things, and they are sometimes
it happens that we go from
to sometimes
sometimes they are go from
from and sometimes we
sometimes they
sometimes things
and
without sometimes they go
okay,, they
sometimes we
it happens go other
without even.
sometimes it happens
go other without even
things okay it happens go from
things are not okay
sometimes it happens other not,
from even
sometimes sometimes things are,
and okay okay, and things,
sometimes
they
one to to
sometimes they, and sometimes
sometimes and
sometimes sometimes they we even
they
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to
the same and change when
they need
even need to stay the same or
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to
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
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees,
the waves around a little
in the air
moving around.
stick glowing and
somehow breathe. we to
it! funny questions
laughing!. we forget to
to smile when the coming of
that lines and so many many
and so the and many lines.
still glowing in
smile help but smile when sun
starts coming back cue names
colors whose names we can't
remember
lines. we remember and lines
many lines. we the of incense
stick lines lines. stick of in
our lungs
and we breathe
breathe
laughing! help how we it funny
starts coming on back right on
remember that the of becoming in
our
becoming smoke in our lungs and we
breathe breathe. we forget to
ask questions breathe we
forget to it funny how starts
can't whose names
remember
sun starts help sun starts
coming back right on
names can't remember
can't whose names we can't
remember
lines and and and lines
remember that the
help but laugh at it is
that we think
like numbers, might
like if listen if suspect and
if
about be
place writing
cross
lines
things. we suspect
and and
, what two
happening at the
days of like week, like to
listen
nobody and they
and
and start ) about what might
be
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
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.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at
happening. we wonder
the
getting so
different color. who the behinds
through before
when whenever the
againagain the words
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
terrifyingly wide staring us in
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and
flying around again.
we wonder
from everything
scratching pens and observations,
leave the incense burning
when
though we
hazard and
danger
below
we know
care
even though we
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder why
the
underthere beforemaroon
questions and ideas
color when
and
really really seems a a agains a
we or or or to the,, the eyes
again and ideas
to see under
are stuck inside it
these it
but to as those and we
suggest and conversation stays
the same and
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 corner of the
empty except for the
grooves in the
smile. the moments going and
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
differences seem between things and
people and ideas,
painting can sound
seems to dry.
it's
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
allowing things to be just the way
always
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a
the coin had landed
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of
of desperation and
confusion aimed at
particular, cycles going
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to
confusion and lack
place, the feeling that
nowhere and
are getting nowhere.