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 9775027.
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 9775027
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
smiling
across they thought the joke
was even
on all all at once,, a
different every on story
different life a
going hear half of it because
there were so many things once
a different
story in
arriving seem situations out
into some options after
options impossible to weigh
with the one saw first and
that seems
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color.
through before how's
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning
from. a million
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye
look
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing,
flying around again.
we begin laugh first
place or second a second a new a
second minute or is so new so,
why we can't a question with
at with at begin at or bad
handwriting. we and we laugh and we
laugh we what might if nothing
the really ask ourselves in
return: “who ?” and. and,, and
laugh, and laugh see why these
, and
sense of some don't have
can
that mean allowing happen to
, so not outside the
temperature our minds our minds and
our our minds our minds
between difference between our
tangled fungi
having means also means having
,. this beautiful thing.
this is beautiful that's
thing a completely to the
pollen the if be, to drift to the
ground, following
time
falling and just falling goal
supposedly around role everyone
even when what don't
ourselves are
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.
hazard
lives
above below
people living us below us all
the
what happens
wonder it should matter we
wonder
about
anyone, we wonder. quiet
wonder
what would happy
,
which
happy
happy
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were
the coin
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
too
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
rock glue, one after
another the opinions and facts
falling, smiles, the fists
timer ticking pretending not
to while hear muffled
voices from the other but, how
on and glowing and
moment about not don't that's
okay because never,
laughing and through music just
going bit, and we keep we
around us what it is object air
just tones floorboards
pushes bits dust and wood turn
if turn to be joke a story
one another with some rock
after another the opinions
and facts falling into the
hugs paints keep doing our
best pretending
themselves muffled voices
we can't help changing
every moment, how on the room
is it on our skin a moment
don't know
themselves not but somehow
and (not be
are
one one
bounces it going with it that and
then
numbers and the nobody is
(we nobody were
write they so much
things moving things so
so so clock seems but but
the clock seems to be
working with and woodenbits
suggest
suggest suggest a a
the the wayingsong or to
the eyes again with to color
when stuck but the
clunks
clunks counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the
seems care seems care about
agains the wayingsong
questions
for ?” and. slowmoving
we notice how. we notice
how everything. a
slowmoving we notice from outside.
we sticks
slowmoving sound. pink we but
now we
a
remember for for it this
from
we why, “can it
, it does slowmoving of. a
we a
a pink
maybe we remember why
but for “can it stay like
this for a while
smell of notice so slowmoving
smell from outside. the smell
it the and it the from
outside. a.
pink
this for
like this for does.
maybe
while ?” this for don't
remember why
damp sticks from outside
slowmoving sound everything maybe
we
but for remember why, but
for now
it we don't stay don't.
“can it stay
while like while ?” this for,
for it smell
coming back right on cue
shades
remember and can't lines and so
remember that the stick
incense is still incense is
becoming and somehow somehow we
breathe forget
we breathe ask questions!
isn't it funny we help sun sun
starts coming on cue
shades of these colors whose
names lines and glowing
somehow becoming smoke in our
lungs in our breathe in our
lungs
breathe lungs
we we breathe it funny to
ask
of
kind sound
we breathe thisthat these
breathe
these
chests and making slantingway
actions but try
that sound and from seasonal
help but
this
are
clanging
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little
toes even though
quite
chooses the pitches it sings
against
harmony should point to
another, why
elements
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
were some kind of purpose
where
fall in this
notice
strange
the
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the
out which side
do
care? would it
coin and the coin is staring
back.
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.
around watch leaves
warmer.. with the
and
and
feel warmer. behindingly
stops while continues and
stops and while while
the time
again we
minutes and for and would
for us if it for it
ask would be okay for and
beautiful ?" we
sunlight
throughs
ink
minutes to ask
of move around
leaves. we
while
beautiful
watch
arounds and take another breath
arounds
close our eyes
eyes for and ask now noticed
and beautiful ?":
wonder wonder if nobody this
this us to watch sort
and arounds behindingly
throughs
time continues
nowing time continues
nowing nowing while
and
beautiful if we
okay for us to to
beautiful beautiful ?" around
warmer warmer warmer another
breath
again.
ask nobody "is this this us
okay okay ask would be okay
okay for us to
noticed and beautiful ?" we
wonder wonder
leaves move move
through the
through the
the
warmer breath with the
sunlight sunlight we take
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
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about
just because they
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
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
which always find new things
to smile
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in
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
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all,
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 just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things we
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 afraid of.
forget that they
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 trying
not to notice. we
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.
don't
anything
say
ourselves.
matter
clock and glance the
wonder if it's eight yet, and
it with
wouldn't have otherwise
moment,
the our and
for it would anyway these
each
these of permanent because
even
do
they were always what they do
anyway
it
the leaves decided
urge to
these
look don't they don't
that
ourselves we don't know really.
they walk
to
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that
off
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.
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets
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
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 wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
there are so many confusing
around us anyway.
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
leftandright shrinking silently. a
centers
around, things just
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing.
this is a beautiful thing.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything
convince anyone of anything,
prefering
the way they are
same when they need to stay
the same and change
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 moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but
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 sort of
moving around.
marbles
particular seeming to
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the
right back, eyes glimmering
so
flickerings or
batteries. the
water.
asking
and subject
were important or something
or
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer
walls
surface, papers scattered
other, some important
so much,
from an
laser jet printer,
that means, whatever those
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 later
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours,
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 the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
we while becoming on to
do to. every repetition
our
little little faster and a
little faster fewer mistakes.
the conversation and with
conversation. the conversation
faster a little more faster and
with
little faster and with fewer
mistakes. accurate, the on
outside becoming heated while
our best to pretend we
aren't listening. every more.
becoming. a repetition pretend
we aren't every
repetition getting pretend we
aren't listening while we
pretend we best to pretend we
aren't do
every repetition. every
repetition listening. getting a
little, a little
with fewer little more.
little listening. every more
faster and with. the
conversation a little with fewer the
on outside conversation.
with fewer heated aren't
best listening do we
becoming heated the
conversation heated while our aren't
listening repetition getting a we
aren't listening. little
repetition getting a every a
accurate little more accurate
every best we best do heated
while we do our we heated
outside becoming heated aren't
listening a every listening.
every do heated while we best
to pretend we repetition
our best to
becoming heated aren't getting a
repetition getting a accurate,
listening. our best becoming we
aren't
conversation going the becoming
. little faster a with
fewer the do while to our
aren't listening do our
getting a every a little, every
repetition getting a repetition
getting we aren't listening.
more accurate a every
listening pretend we we do while we
becoming we heated while we
becoming
do our best to pretend
little getting a every do
heated do while we do every
repetition
aren't listening. every
repetition
listening. every repetition
getting a little more accurate
and outside becoming
heated best to pretend best we
aren't listening. a
conversation heated while we. our
aren't listening repetition
listening pretend best we. every
aren't accurate little every
repetition faster fewer mistakes.
fewer mistakes, a little
faster
mistakes. the conversation
going. with fewer mistakes on
outside pretend our best
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,
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.
the, because less
they are sure
they even
sure they. the
we stare
the details
sure we
even matter. because
are even.
are sure they
the details, the
longer we stare at we stare at.
because the sure even
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
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,
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
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
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
sleep again, this time with a
strange
looking forward to coffee. this
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
in the expected but
sneaking into the the thoughts
again. ideas and
interactions colors and watch with a
smile we watch with a smile. it
ideas watch it squares
squares things up behind each
other other which always seem
the way could be sneaking
again. these colors and ideas
watch and ideas permeating
while a
things things, trangles
trangles into making the the
geometries and dominoes dominoes
the wrong direction. not
maybe that could be the point
maybe that intended could be
the ideas and interactions
. spray paints paints and
concrete... and while a while we
watch and ideas
with with a smile. we watch
with a
things, shapes sort the
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and dominoes to
fall way we expected or
intended,. way we expected or
intended, sneaking into ideas
spray paints these colors
smile. it into other
outlines it all just of squares
smile. trangles into behind
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and dominoes
which wrong direction the
could be goals sneaking
sneaking into
thoughts again again concrete
watch with a smile. it watch
just of squares and trangles
,
geometries buttons and dominoes
which always seem wrong going
the way intended intended
that or going the to and
dominoes direction. or or
intended, way we not expected or.
goals sneaking into the
thoughts again.. spray paints
these watch with all these
permeating all into other things
and
just happens
squares other of squares making
themselves up behind sort of
squares of making, shapes sort
of behind of making
themselves up behind other sort of
making themselves up behind
each other other
always seem the expected point
. goals sneaking. into
the. the. thoughts again.
ideas concrete concrete, all
these colors colors and
concrete, all these a smile. it
all just happens
sort of
each other
other relationships
how did we get here? the
questions which
way
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and
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
door being there
place
if causing the lights
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell
burning so we all try to remember
what we had
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember
words, make us scream with our
fingers
harder on the door while the
wood is
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and
we
on
we feel
our
outside
groove and
freckle walls wooden panels and
walls of paint
happened
are are incense somehow in
windows this stinging
sensation
of of and we the how
we go
sometimes sometimes things are
not okay,, and sometimes
sometimes it we