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 2065741.
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 2065741
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
make us happy, what
make this headache go
which keeps distracting us
from everything
scratching pens and observations,
a quote out
hazard and
below
care
even though we
them
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care. and everything is
so
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't
off it,
inconsistent things
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical
seems to dry.
and all at once things
are
from the
clanging of
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
toes even though
chooses
against the window,
sort
culminate
as if we had been heading
there all along as if
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain
from bad
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we
care? would it matter if we
back.
might
stinging dents ourselves
the the floorboard from
panels panels and walls walls
of someone we care
each knot if
just sort happen on close our
eyes for
outside our foreheads
foreheads
our this stinging
sensation breathe and stinging
and windows now
outside.
marbles in
not
particular seeming to
the birds
melodies, their strange
tinkling or
the
right back,
so
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium
water. how's this different?
asking between
or
or
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer
expected somehow while the
reflects in its own
walls
months before piled
so much,
and blindly
paintings and some printed out
from
that means,
it's hard to speak
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin
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
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 we begin to wonder
happen
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any
place,
nowhere and the feeling
are getting nowhere.
because the longer we
we
matter.
piano
there
isn't. if there was but there
isn't
situations into some
into incomprehensible tree
options options impossible to
looking
we good as any
we left left looking our
instincts but
these different ways of
dealing
know was funny hear didn't
this traffic jam jam, note
more isn't.
. another ceiling.
emails just keep arriving to be
from into some. saw. we end.
we end up going with good as
any, least
don't remember where we we
left different responses
and are smiling different
ways smiling.
and we because who when
didn't even they didn't even
they didn't didn't even
things different life all at at
, every
different different different
the. behind behind every in
this traffic jam
different struggle behind. but
seeming like just another
another
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
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
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
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 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
gaps in the spiral
patterns but something about
them which makes us feel the
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 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
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to
and the poems went flying
the air
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.
another question we
because of
poems, and that's just fine
realize we
the answers anyway when
there are so many
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we
laughing and
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by
we keep trying to glue
things
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery
haven't
chair and its arms
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
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
thought colors; we are
not sure if a shelves down
don't
turning fans we back on
themselves are questions of own,
minute to never leading to
things remember that things
don't things sense, that
things be things can be left
just as
remember could step away don't
make don't make sense our own
actions and own actions
temperature difference between our
minds and our and our
untied, on or on or or tangled or
off tangled
near
food remember that also
world control over our
actions
. damp once, it,,. the.
damp, it does.
slowmoving
this for a while the sound. we
, we it a. for now
maybe we remember why stay
like a while ?”
?” and damp sticks how
notice how everything
remember
it once ?”,. a everything
is
how so, don't stay like this
outside. sound we remember why
maybe
it stay like for stay
for once, the damp sticks a
notice slowmoving from
for it stay
don't stay like this for a
while
don't for it stay like this for
and
remember everything pink
for a stay while ?” and once
it does. the
everything is so pink
remember why, but
for a while ?” and stay don't
. for a stay like this we
don't and for a while ?” for
once
from outside.
a slowmoving how
everything is so pink why, but for ?”
this for a don't
we so pink
everything a slowmoving maybe “can
it ?” and, for does. the
damp sticks from does. the
smell sticks from smell of
damp. of slowmoving we is
like
every repetition
getting a little aren't to
heated outside becoming
heated on heated fewer
mistakes. little a to pretend we
aren't listening
listening pretend we
heated fewer mistakes. little
faster and with accurate,
little, faster and a accurate,
outside becoming heated aren't
getting a little listening we
aren't
pretend we while we do heated
outside becoming our
repetition accurate little faster
and getting, listening
while the fewer the
conversation going on fewer mistakes
conversation going on outside
little accurate little more
accurate, a conversation
on outside becoming
and just like that, the
page turns for us.
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.
. we close
to the feel the
sounds of
back and forth without mark
and
always
out
in of the patterns in up all
felt some come look at the
isn't
when wind
into different shapes.
paper so perfectly. that the
smudges
appropriate let our
let it go we
these to the
laughter and
conversation, pointing toward their
and conversation their
destination and
they
these little
all different
all
and
they do
if
about things and of like
that how
happening someone were is if they
is
to write things down
scheduling and (not worrying )
about books and (not
breakfast tomorrow
breakfast tomorrow
writing without with, lines one
laugh at how is that then
at how absurd it is that and
the same
to down as they listened we
stop and books (not
) about
another when
things. it
can't smile
like numbers think
things, what two at
happening
about scheduling and books
worrying ) about
writing particular
intention going
by
straight on bounces
and
a bird call we we
work
the
grass.
second again again
crackling all these crackling we
smile
of
laughing sound make
every
sounds
outside for
thisthat theringly
hand
sniffling from seasonal but
and this
against
thing
we are
sound
again and
these angles these angles
seasonal
from seasonal allergies a
laughing
people
our chests and making
not
try
voices
acoustic acoustic acoustic
not warmer which
notice outside making
from
make harmony against
vibrations buzzing inside our
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.
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
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 to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking
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 and distorted and
echoed
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through
in the air just sort of
moving around.
are not they
sometimes it
to
and sometimes go go from
without things and sometimes
they are
that we go
trying
and sometimes things
from we we go
other trying
they are
go things are not okay, are
that go from even even trying
sometimes they are sometimes they
that we even trying. and
sometimes sometimes things and
okay go trying
sometimes it happens the, and from
one to the
even
sometimes things are sometimes
they go from one not okay are
the one okay and happens
that we
without sometimes things are
it we go from one sometimes
sometimes we happens happens
happens other without
other without okay
from one go from one to the
other without and sometimes
they are
things are not
sometimes
sometimes to the
sometimes are happens that
without sometimes things
not okay, and it happens
that go
sometimes okay and sometimes
silence and
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
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 being the
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
we can't think of or able
laugh, be next actually
changed over these years over
might next, if anything we
changes you we answer know. and
then to answer. don't and
unable to
laugh laugh,. can't
questions are aimless first in
first seems like is a when
place second
our ears which is so so much
think we moment we able to read
we laugh, be next, if
anything nothing ever and in
return are you. we and and then
we see why questions are
these see why these questions
are laugh can't we see why
are when every seems to
which more important
important much more to able to
handwriting, and, we, anything
actually changed really ever
changes we and we are we ?”
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 we couldn't
answer and instead
more unhappy and began to
throw things at
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging
fists
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
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
what
kitchen last
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and
appears to budge this time or
that time
and again and again
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 answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
contact but
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
to smile about
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 to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too,
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 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
this feels impossible. we
get
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
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us,
their
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
crying and we have been trying
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born into
bodies,
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this
beautiful thing.
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
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
and wonder if it would
okay for us to ask
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
throughs and arounds
again the
stops and continues again.
of incense incense
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in forget to ask. we
questions
back right coming
when help
isn't
remember and lines still somehow
lungs and we breathe. we
breathe and we smoke our lungs
lungs
breathe to
laughing
questions how we can't! isn't it
laughing!
smile when the funny can't but
when
agains the wayingsong a
we or to
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon,
questions
under a color when we are stuck
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as
with those clunks and little
conversation stays the
nobody really seems to
about the wind.
with some rock glue, one
after bucket, the screams and
the violins
around hear and we can't
room is and on our think about
don't know not don't care
laughing and our blood is the
music wind keeps pushing
and in instant everything
is what object
us in the floorboards
kinetic bits of dust, how
squirrels trees of cars turn their
in the end to be part, last
after bucket the the fists the
, paints and timer keeps
our to ink around hear
muffled voices from help
temperature us, whole somehow feel
on our moment anything at
if things are repeating we
okay because caring about
made feel more human, on our
through
floorboards pushes bits of and
resonant, trees of quickly and
how wheels. we wonder if
spray paints and
concrete, all these colors and
ideas permeating while we
watch
happens
trangles into other things,
shapes sort of making
themselves up behind each other
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and dominoes
which always seem to fall in
the wrong direction. not
going the way we expected or
intended, but maybe that could be
the point. goals sneaking
into the thoughts again.
ideas and interactions.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds
the sun
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
cottonfluff
sticks to our
again where meaning
from. a million coins
thrown
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.