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 5640007.
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 5640007
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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.
questions which keep
way inside
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again
the door not even caring
what's on the other
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
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 scream with our
fingers and pound harder
harder on the door while the
wood
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and
conversation going
becoming our best to aren't
heated while we do our outside
becoming heated fewer heated
while
and with fewer mistakes
conversation and with
. a more listening
repetition little pretend we to
pretend we aren't listening.
getting a little getting a
little, every listening.
every listening
repetition listening. every to
aren't do to aren't listening.
getting
getting and little more
accurate, a accurate and with.
conversation outside going 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:
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 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
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, 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.
because the longer we
we
matter.
we keep
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time
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 a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
so
sometimes it's
sometimes don't know be,
we glance at the
clock
looks
execution,
their
these little
sort
enormous eventually,
out where a from really that
noticed
ourselves
happens we glance
and it isn't
hair
but ink and lead and
make or
just listen
us
different motions
could, maybe
decided or felt some
grow in
that
now up they see us so
it's
and another
smear the
somehow or us hoping that the
somehow
execution
airplanes the
warming we wonder what wonder
really
couldn't prepare us for it
it would matter
to the
how place
motions mark because even roads
dams
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take
off it, noticing
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
out into some
incomprehensible tree we
impossible weigh as as any at
looking now now now least we good
go go instincts but we
these different
circumstances calling for
calling for different
responses
we don't know why
amplifying across
funny when they didn't didn't
even there so many
really and about the
we or the eyelids,
counterpoint. and and nobody really
seems about and the
and we
usual be and
counterpoint the conversation and
the same and agains a a while
while behind the, and the
beforemaroon, the eyes
questions and under we stuck but
the clock slowly slowly
the clock seems
with those
counterpoint really seems to care
about the wind about. a to
beforemaroon questions and
color color when we we are
the
fingers we suggest a stays seems
to eyelids, and eyelids,,
and eyelids, and
underthere, again with questions
see under how to see
stuck inside inside it
things
and
counterpoint the nobody care about
the while behind or a
with questions ideas
it
things all moving so slowly but
the
the conversation stays the
same and nobody really to
care
wayingsong we or the eyelids, and
underthere underthere, the eyes
again
color when we we are
inside it usual fingers
counterpoint
stays the same and stays
nobody really seems to care
about the wind we while behind
the, with questions again
with
questions eyes
not
particular seeming to wonder
the birds get their
the dark
right back,
so loudly
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings
asking between
and subject
were important
or anothersong
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while
reflects in
walls and the nearby
months before
other, some important some not
and blindly drawn
from an old
laser jet printer,
that means, whatever
meaning.
we wonder
make this
scratching
a quote out of context
leave the incense burning
when we go
though
hazard and it puts our lives in
other people
below us, and
we
care about what happens
them to. we wonder why
should matter that something
happens
which whyhow
thumpingly against the doors, the
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes never leading to ones
things might make sense of some
kind. we remember that things
don't have to make sense, that
things can be left just as they
happen
consistency is another sort of
illusion and that taking a step
away could even mean
allowing things which don't make
sense to happen
difference between our own actions
and the temperature
outside today, not so much
difference between our minds and
our shoelaces
untied, on or off or
a trashbag somewhere
near spoiled food being
eaten by bacteria and fungi
remember that having no control
over the world also means
having no control over
ourselves, our thoughts, our
actions, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing and that's
completely okay if we let it be, if we
watch the pollen drift
ground, following a single
green speck in its strange
path
together with the crowd
completely separate, at the same
time going somewhere with a
goal and just falling in the
air's path, standing around
for hours supposedly doing
some job playing some role in
this
vaguely defined values being
pushed on everyone even when we
don't quite understand what
anyone is saying or why they are
saying it or and we ourselves
don't quite understand what
we ourselves are saying or
why we are saying it
still saying something
outside, the sun's belly still
rising and falling with every
breath as it thinks about
wooden cabinets and why they
are shaped the way they are
when there are so many
possibilities, so many ways to write a
poem or explain a thought, so
many ways to build a chord and
roll up our sleeves when it
seems everyday that there is a
new color in the sky, a new
piece of garbage on our desks.
different tones of voice and
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
and toes make up for
emptiness or soullessness if we
prefer to think of it that way.
the illusion breaking down
again, a smallvoiced reminder
that we are a pale blue dot, a
grain of sand out of place in a
different language and there are
pictures of things we don't
recognize
when we thought we had a good
grip on shapes and colors; we
are
shuffling feet a few shelves down
friend we haven't seen in a long
time whose name we don't
remember even though years ago we
had laughed until the sun
came back
is from an old cell phone
left playing music, or the
ventilation fans turning back on
remember that the galaxies
themselves are asking questions of
their own,
they are hurtling toward,
wondering when it will finally
stop for a minute
worrying
and
we
particular sense
just
scratchy
ear
just happen can't
little help smile a
the numbers and
(we suspect they is and if to
write as
one
another
to particular
intention with, with to the
word and just going
help it
might sound
about be for breakfast
tomorrow or why
with of with any
writing without any particular
of intention with
the
we
even
of
same time what
like if at the time
sound someone
someone ) and listened. we stop
worrying books
another are writing without
and going straight on the
with it and still going. that
is
scheduling and start
when
any just sense of lines one
by one to the scratchy
ear
still just going it
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
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
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we
strange wooden boxes attached
eyes which still say
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to
behind our ears, the
piece of paper falls on the
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to
everything
nothing, to
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that
sometimes
too, that sometimes
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
never will, so it starts
making
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
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
intentions and what they want or
what they are
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
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies,
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
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 to change but maybe
instead want
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 moment,
letting it out and letting
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
moving around.
freckle someone we the face
how each a lot
the desk
purpose of
in might we feel now.
sensation
they
wooden wooden and and
the face
if on purpose of these
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 the mind and and later
in concrete,
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and
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.
in unexpected question
: you ?” and we are unable
to answer. we answer. we
don't know. and then we begin
to. can't see why laugh,.
laugh begin, and laugh begin
to laugh, and laugh, and
laugh so are aimless first
seems
like second question a is so
so much important of a good
question to read
, and, if
we wait for a few minutes
and
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?"
if nobody noticed
watch the air just sort of move
take another breath
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the
again the time continues and
stops
circles of ink
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.
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
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.
from outside. a slowmoving
everything
for
silence and quiet now. a
small voice
laughing in the other room. a
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch.
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is
air sort tones staring
us without turning
floorboards kinetic dust
squirrels trees of turn their. we
out joke without a one, the
same bucket, the screams and
smiles, the fists, keeps
ticking we keep doing not notice
around on themselves while the
help but the all around us,
this piece the we skin a.
things care we that's
perfectly okay because made us the
sun glowing the just keeps
pushing trees around in instant
we us for what it and object
air these tones without
turning by the floorboards and
transformed some why of wonder in the
end it will
paints and concrete.
spray paints and concrete,
these colors. and and. it all
just happens
into other sort of making
other and to dominoes
relationships in the wrong seem to fall
. way we expected going
the way way fall we not going
maybe that thoughts. goals
sneaking. and ideas permeating a
shapes sort of behind
relationships relationships which
always seem to fall in the wrong
direction. not maybe expected or
intended that
ticking
we longer while longer
allergies. we
somehow
okay. more one thing
our
that
allergies
smile
other even one. and one
happens that
trying things are not not okay
sometimes one to
other and sometimes
to the
go trying.
happens that one
sometimes they go
even trying
are trying., from and
sometimes things
and all at
are so quiet, a tiny
from
clanging of
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it
against the
another,
sort
elements and trajectories
as if we had been heading
there all
behind the penscratches or
where this
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in
strange sense
the bottom
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a
banging;
out which side it landed
care?
coin and
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
the energy to say anything,
too
behind each option which
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into
had happened in
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 some kind
of
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always
somehow and adding to the
confusion
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that
are getting nowhere.
we we
breathe! it it funny how we can't
help when the we can't help
but back right colors whose
lines whose and
lines and so lines the stick
remember that the stick of
incense still somehow becoming
smoke smoke and in forget to
ask questions. laughing we
forget breathe lungs in still
glowing is still glowing and
somehow of incense is still
glowing somehow becoming smoke
in we breathe breathe
breathe. we forget
coming on
the changes
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row
through before how's
when whenever
againagain the words
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us.
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of
terrifyingly
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around