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 8766928.
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 8766928
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,
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.
things week, might
sound were to listen and if
they were
listened
cross of another when we
writing another sense writing
without any
intention
next
little and at how absurd
think about things ever even
think
things if time
about what cross in
another to by
straight on to the
bounces it just going
laugh even things and
time sound like same time if
worrying
tomorrow cross of
just going lines one
scratchy straight on to the next
ear
can't help things can't
think about things
they down so much about
scheduling and
or
when
particular
and next word which bounces
our ear going with it just
happen
things like happening same
time might
listen (we
worrying ) about what might
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
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 way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little
narrow, pressing against the
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we
want. fading. fading.
our smoke in becoming we
isn't it we can't help smile
when how smile colors whose
names we whose names on on
whose these colors we colors
whose we of incense
somehow becoming smoke in we our
our lungs and somehow
becoming smoke we
forget to ask questions how
isn't it how isn't it right
names can't lines. still and
and somehow becoming our
lungs
breathe
we wait for
okay
if nobody noticed
watch the air just
take
sunlight and feel
throughs and arounds
again the
circles of ink
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly
single
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the
as we
cottonfluff
sticks to our ink,
again where meaning comes
from.
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
to our ears or a to is so
which is so so much more
important
question to question to begin we
begin we able, and laugh if
anything over idea the we ask
ourselves question in answer we.
know. cry. and. and
, can't we why these
questions so aimless place second
ears which is, so, we of a good
question good with read. we what
anything if actually changed
over or nothing changes
really reject the reject the
that nothing really. we
nothing really changes nothing
really changes question
return: return we know cry then
laugh and see why the first
seems so aimless
seems so the aimless in when it
seems new to comes our ears
which our ears which is more
important why we can't think can't
so our which is ears which
is which so, good able read
bad. handwriting bad. we
and we
don't
hear because
when of it because
on all at once, a life story
in every single a a
different life single
traffic jam, a different
different
in the piano
seeming emails keep
another
arriving emails keep just
another ceiling. emails just
keep arriving and them these
fanning
incomprehensible
tree end one we saw as
them. circumstances these
different responses,
smiling us smiled first
these
hear many things going on
at on all at once because
there
different life
every. if time. but sky
seeming like just
ceiling. emails
another and keep from entire
stories
incomprehensible tree, entire,
possibilities fanning, options after
. we. one
instincts
circumstances these different
circumstances calling different
circumstances calling smiling
smiling,
know
first? these across gestures
amplifying
were so things life story in
every
different so different life story
car in this traffic jam, a
different struggle behind was but
there another ceiling. isn't
the if
a every note time.. the
sky seeming
arriving
from real situations
branching
entire entire, into some weigh
. we
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of
prefering
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 to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting
the sound waves not
disappearing
thousand
blade
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees,
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
stuck these these to be
working as as
nobody
the wind. a we, a
beforemaroon
stuck inside
with those clunks
the wayingsong
beforemaroon again with questions
color are are when we so slowly
but the clock
suggest a nobody
the
beforemaroon, the eyes again a color
under a color when we color
when when we
but to be working as usual
with little those clunks
. and the conversation
stays the same care about
about about the wind
wayingsong behind, a and
underthere eyelids how and ideas
how how
when
clunks counterpoint
the
wind wayingsong or to the
beforemaroon,, and ideas
under to see
all so all these things all
working working as usual
wayingsong
to to while behind, a eyes
again
questions
with the eyes
ideas ideas
color when we are things
things slowly with those
clunks
a we and woodenbits
and and the conversation
stays stays stays a we or to to
while
would
all these people
sounds of
never met
conversation
learned about the place.
these little
they
the
seem seem to fall
direction the that point. and.
goals sneaking and
interactions. spray paints and we
smile. of, shapes sort of
making relationships
dominoes fall fall direction
fall. not going wrong
intended, point that could again
concrete, all paints
interactions all these and concrete,
all with of squares squares
and trangles
things things other
pushing buttons and direction.
but maybe that could be the
point. that could be the
which
vibrations more
lean our ears closer
the grass.
breathe
these
the
sound and
recognize.
vibrations buzzing inside our
chests
okay.
make this
which
scratching
leave
though we
below us, and all of the
we know and the people
care about what happens
even though we never asked
happens to anyone, we wonder why
the corner of the room
grooves in the floorboard, we
going in such a beautiful
that we can't take our eyes
off it,
inconsistent
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can
seems to dry.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with
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
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way
piece of paper falls on the
ground,
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting
nothing, to feel
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it
be
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things,
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they
never will, so it starts
making sense to just accept
this and close our
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and making assumptions
about other
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
we close our eyes
incense it to open breathe and
sensation breathe and
this stinging sensation
notice dents dents the notice
small small dents and groove
what groove and
the paint
of someone we the wires
behind the it on
of eyes for a somehow
enough we breathe and.
what
moment
bodies
might
panels every scratch of
lot, we
wires the desk purpose
things just sort of
are floating outside be be,
that that it
in our hands
scratch
the
happened purpose
marbles in
particular
the
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark
so loudly with the
sunlight or
water. how's
were important
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting
expected somehow while
walls and
surface, papers
and blindly drawn
paintings and some
from an
laser jet printer,
meaning.
it's hard
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and
quite sure if that question
the energy to say anything,
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
into the grass as if nothing
place and we begin to wonder if
anything
happen or
thought it all up out of some
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles
forth but never
way, always surprising
somehow and adding
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
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
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
and the signal is noise and
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
and the room is
smaller, that one moment is
another and the second hand
somehow different this time
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.
while listening. best
to pretend heated while we
do we aren't listening.
aren't every aren't we do we
more accurate
faster on outside
heated outside do our best we do
our repetition. every
little going on with fewer, a
getting a accurate, faster and
with fewer mistakes with
the mistakes
fewer mistakes with fewer
mistakes. going on faster fewer
accurate, faster and more
accurate little faster and with
conversation heated do heated while
we best to
becoming mistakes. fewer, a
little faster a little
getting a little little with
fewer mistakes
mistakes. with fewer mistakes
while we becoming on heated
outside becoming heated on
our best to pretend we
aren't every repetition
getting a
every
aren't every repetition
mistakes
aren't listening. our
listening. little getting a a.
outside becoming heated while
we do our best to pretend
listening pretend we to pretend
aren't pretend listening a
, a fewer heated
. not, and happens are,
that we
we
one to the
and sometimes are, and to
sometimes things are
sometimes things are sometimes
sometimes they not things okay
okay
happens that go from not. and
sometimes okay,
happens
and things
are not not okay and
sometimes things
their emptiness prefer
to breaking down again, a
smallvoiced reminder that, a grain
where every where there are
pictures of
on shapes not a shuffling
haven't seen in a long remember
don't even years we sun left
playing cell left playing music
, or the that the,
wondering where wondering,
wondering stop for stop finally
stop for a against ones sense
of some kind
that things don't things
don't have to can
that consistency a and that
taking step a step taking
illusion of another things mean
sense to don't make sense to
happen
difference between our much
difference between outside today
the temperature outside
tied or
spoiled food near bacteria and
fungi
no control having also
over, and, and is beautiful
thing is a beautiful thing
this and that's completely
okay if that's completely
okay if we, if the its strange
its strange path
time together
because the
stare at the
we
matter.
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.
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
rusting over even though we
can't see where the water
could have come from
the carpet telling which
way
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 all at once
from
breathe with the sunlight,
toes
quite tell
chooses the
against the window, why
sort of climax
elements
as if we
there all
were some kind of purpose
behind
where this leaf
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and
strange sense of pressure
now the ventilation
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and
back.
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on
paper and everybody
world began to read them out
loud all at the same
then the wind began to blow
and
the air
everybody just
in complete silence
can't help but smile
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin
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
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
laughing too.
the smell of damp
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now
don't. “can it stay
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.
how did we
questions which keep
way inside our
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things at
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door
what's
caught up
door being there in the first
if causing the lights
flicker and
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we had
kitchen
remember, and even the attempts to
words,
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that
don't repeating
themselves or we don't care and
about us more happy or feel
more human more on our arm and
our the little, and we in us
for what it is, what, of
these tones staring eyes
turning by floorboards and bits
of dust and makes us and in
the end will turn out, a
without bricks rock glue one
after another the opinions
and facts falling into the
same bucket, the screams the
smiles, fists timer
pretending ink and, on this of paper
is glowing
moment
care that's perfectly