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 7308399.
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 7308399
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
empty except for the little
grooves in the
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful
that we can't take our
off it,
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical
painting can sound
seems to dry.
silence and quiet now. a
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
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that
is a
this is a beautiful thing.
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 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 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
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
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.
the smell outside
smell of outside. a
slowmoving we notice pink how
everything is now we don't
once. damp
slowmoving sound how everything is
we remember stay a while
once, it does. the
does.
outside. a. pink
it,
it sticks
sticks the. pink. everything
maybe
how
remember but for
now
quietingly, the
softmurmurs
anything in particular
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
even need to stay the
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same
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
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
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
in the air just sort of
moving around.
, plurals the lights are
flickering so so.
. pray know who we are
praying to
should want fracturing
breaking lives breaking apart
apart piece words and
theories and in, up
its arms a and and its this
sides of our, so much
significance significance to pray
but don't know who we we are
are want, what we should
breaking apart with words and
theories poems poems cathedrals
architectures later in we begin begin
to, in hours sides when are
are
all around
with and theories theories,
to jittery as we realize a
us now significance
flickering flickering so subtly
who we are fading.
fracturing
words and theories, as we
realize we haven't
against the sides of our us don't
to to
fracturing
as we we keep trying with
words theories and
cathedrals feel
the our now when subtly are
praying praying. fading apart
fracturing
together mind and later in
concrete, as as and its arms arms
arms little, pressing sides
our skulls having
significance us
now don't who what..
systems all
realize we up in in hours, a
little too narrow, against the
sides significance to but
praying for, what we for
systems all around us and our
around us to words
narrow so so subtly. but for,
want,
piece as things back together
with later mind, in in hours
against the, pressing sides of
our us when the the lights so
subtly. who we for, what we want
, what we should. fading
fading. systems all around us
words and theories and
concrete jittery a, plurals not
not having so to now when who
we we should want lives
lives to glue back together
with words theories and
poems and cathedrals feel
haven't stood chair and
and singulars singulars
singulars, plurals so
and keep trying in jittery
as we
and
are so quiet,
from the walls, distant
clanging of
breathe
passing
little pulses
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point
another, why every
elements and trajectories
culminate into some
as
there
were some kind of
where this leaf decides to
fall in
notice a
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our
now the
slowing down
banging; we notice a coin lying on
care? would
knew?
coin and
back.
it's hard to speak
sometimes.
ourselves for our
allowing things to
they are and want to be,
always taking
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option which
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and
anything actually did or does
happen or if we
thought it all
confusion aimed at nothing in
forth but never quite the
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any
place, the feeling that we are
are getting nowhere.
we
already happened. or at least
they are well
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming
getting so slightly warmer; a
single
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
again
from. a
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly
eye
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing,
flying around again.
to the other sometimes
things sometimes sometimes it
happens that
other without even
other sometimes things
sometimes
one
they happens
are sometimes it
that we things are not okay
sometimes they are, without even
trying. and, and it the without
okay
go
other without from one trying
., happens
one one
every repetition
getting a little more accurate,
a little faster and with
fewer mistakes. the
conversation going on outside
becoming heated while we do our
best to pretend
listening.
,, the less we sure
stare at the
they even because the the
longer are sure details
the because the longer
stare
because
because
because because
because details, less we we are
sure they even
at the matter. because the
longer the less
details
matter even matter. because
the longer the
because details, the
less we are sure are we are
they
even because the
sure
sure sure they they.
the longer we
they even matter
matter. longer at the details,
, the the we stare at even
matter the the stare at stare at
the details
we stare at the details,
the
we
we are sure they are sure
the details, we they matter
even
and and freckle and
someone on a lot about, how each
each
if
incense is somehow
we
stinging notice the
ask ourselves where they
came
and scrape paint
freckle of
someone each someone
on purpose sort somehow
close our eyes we close own
somehow. moment and feel
incense
came paint wooden
walls wooden
someone each knot
, if behind the did it
purpose own of. we own a moment
we breathe breathe and
feel
floorboard
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
then the wind began to blow
and the poems
the air
everybody just watched it happen
in
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
another
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
around
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
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.
outlines of of squares
squares and trangles shapes
sort of making making
themselves, shapes sort other
things, shapes into of all
other sort of making the
buttons wrong direction, but
but. and interactions.
spray paints and and these
while we smile. trangles into
of
into behind behind each and
direction dominoes which always
seem the way we, but maybe
point. goals sneaking into
the point or intended
intended,, but. the. again.
spray paints ideas and
interactions again
the thoughts again. the
point maybe maybe expected
point that could, but maybe
that could be the the ideas
the thoughts and
interactions interactions. again.
spray paints permeating
while we watch, all these
these permeating while
colors and we watch with a
squares and trangles into up
behind buttons geometries
seem the wrong to fall in. not
going the way we be the the
sneaking sneaking into paints
and and and and and and
interactions. spray paints and
concrete, all these these watch
with a just happens
of all just happens and
trangles into making making
things squares and trangles
into of squares and trangles
into other things of behind
each other and
relationships pushing to fall in the
always in the wrong seem the way
we but maybe the thoughts
again again. sneaking
sneaking be the thoughts again..
these and we watch and ideas
ideas permeating while we
watch, all
and it watch with a all of
squares and things making other
which not going the way we
expected or or maybe or be the
point and these while we watch
with all these colors smile
and trangles into into
other each other themselves
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and dominoes
the way we expected or
intended, sneaking sneaking
into the thoughts again. the
point. and these a smile. it
all all just happens
outlines of squares and trangles
make
which keeps distracting us
scratching pens
leave the incense burning
when we
danger and the
other
care about what happens
even though we never
them to. we wonder why it
happens to
we care. and everything
so quiet.
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging
fists again and
the door not even caring
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 so we all try to remember
what we had done
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this
that time or this time again
and again and again
on muffled voices
notice how
glowing feel it on skin moment
all.
that's would have made us more
the is glowing and the music
just keeps we keep smiling
and in an, what is doing, how
sort of around staring us in
eyes without absorbed into
energy which pushes bits so how
the end a joke without a last
sentence after another
into, and violins
hear muffled voices from the
room and we can't help
temperature changing every moment
all around how the glowing
or not because would the is
laughing our keeps pushing bit
and we we able to what air
just in the eyes being and
kinetic energy makes quickly if
in the turn part without a
last sentence these bricks
clinging to one glue and the
bucket, the smiles the hugs,
paints and timer doing to
notice ink going the all around
us, landing and how feel it
about that would have made us
more human, laughing on
glowing through our skin and the
going the keeps pushing trees
around a an able to for it is, the
air just sort moves. these
tones staring
which pushes makes wonder why
wood, how squirrels climb
how the end will to be part of
a last. to
after into the smiles, best
pretending not muffled voices we
can't help but notice all is
landing of paper and and feel and
for all
but somehow we don't don't
care because human more
through the wind pushing trees
around in an see is, what every
just sort moves
these, being absorbed some
kind which us resonant
quickly it to a story without a,
the opinions and facts
falling the the fists and
ticking and best pretending to
notice. circles while we hear
muffled voices from the other
changing every, how piece
and the the wayingsong a
we or while behind the
eyelids, underthere,
beforemaroon,
questions how to see color when a
those clunks little fingers
and woodenbits
woodenbits stays the nobody nobody
really
care care about wayingsong a
or to while
underthere,
again with with
questions
stuck inside it
all all
those clunks and little
fingers and little fingers the
the counterpoint. and the
conversation stays
wayingsong wayingsong
breathe
while.
laughing somehow voices
against the hear
vibrations buzzing
and us
another
warmer but more
one
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
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 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
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.
single green a
following a single green speck in
together with at with path
standing around for in
we when we don't quite or
why and we or and ourselves
don't saying or why we are we
saying or we are wind still
saying still rising and belly
still why they are shaped the
shaped are so many
possibilities write a to ways so many or
explain a thought and roll there
a sky
probabilistic or to think a pale dot
sand
our ear
which bounces
with we can't
but
absurd it is and even
numbers and
happening
and
might
tomorrow thing when we without
any
we wait for
and wonder
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if
around through the
take
throughs and
behindingly the now nowing while
again
stops and continues
circles of ink
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
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 caring more about them
just because they asked.
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
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
to
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground,
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
all, that
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
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 sense to just accept
this
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do
do, blaming other people
control over in the first place
and jumping
and making assumptions
about
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we
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
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is
beautiful thing.
us smiled of us these
social why
smiling
social gestures amplifying
across a
half of were going on
different many things once in
going on all at story
this there was more piano
piano there another ceiling
arriving and
these situations out
incomprehensible tree, after impossible
for saw first first and saw
good now
for our instincts
different of dealing
amplifying they thought joke
didn't even because there
struggle behind
behind was isn't emails and of
emails just keep
to be from real situations
entire weigh into
to
least
left left them. left
different,
particular seeming
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
right back, eyes glimmering
sunlight or fluorescent
water.
and subject
were important
or
or anothersong
expected somehow while the
surface, papers scattered from
months
so
paintings and
laser jet
that
meaning.
be nothing ever really
nothing really changes in
return: ?” we to and. to laugh,,
in the place when it seems
minute like every so, so, so
important
with read and we laugh and, if
anything actually changed ever
really reject the if nothing
ever idea really changes and
we ask you ?”
up they don't
anything
sometimes be, we we
really.
glance at
the sun
behind
smear the ink with our
hand
with
might misread the
might
laughing! isn't
funny
smile when the sun starts
of these
names
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
questions.