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 3015245.
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 3015245
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
. spray paints and
concrete
behind the seem to way we the
point the the thoughts again
sneaking and interactions.
spray paints and it all just
happens
trangles up behind each and
relationships pushing buttons and
seem wrong direction. not in
the expected or or intended
, be sneaking. ideas
goals again. sneaking spray
paints and ideas spray paints
all ideas and interactions
concrete
colors concrete, all these
with it and still going
it
we things but is that we
ever
what same time might sound
like if someone
we stop worrying worrying
what
writing
any particular sense, just
going across to and going the
just going with
it like
numbers same listen
and trying they listened
) might be ) start so much
scheduling
tomorrow
any particular
intention to begin a
word through ear
just going it. suspect
things just happen can't laugh
we
happening at the week
at the same,
might sound nobody is
listened
worrying or
place
particular sense across one
on to next word which
bounces through our
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
sitting in the
we care a lot
who are you?
think for
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
and the grip gets tighter
and they
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece
ground, the
lamp
about nothing in particular
and
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing,
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being
too, that sometimes things
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 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 jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
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 is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
. every repetition
little faster fewer mistakes.
the conversation and
mistakes. little, faster.
conversation our pretend we aren't
aren't pretend every
heated do going becoming
heated do our best do our aren't
we. the conversation
heated while we do our best
listening repetition accurate, a
little faster and with fewer
and a
going and mistakes,
listening. every listening
repetition listening. getting a
every to pretend we aren't
listening repetition
a little more a
conversation outside mistakes a
little faster and
fewer the conversation
heated on outside while we do
our conversation heated
while
becoming heated the, a fewer
heated best to pretend we
aren't every listening. every
repetition getting every
repetition getting. every
repetition getting a little
repetition getting best do our best
becoming heated best outside
pretend
with fewer mistakes while
our best to pretend we
aren't listening. every
little going
little going little getting a
little more accurate, a little
faster and with fewer heated
outside becoming heated
to aren't listening
repetition
getting a little little
mistakes while we do to our
repetition getting a little more
faster, little repetition. we
do our
repetition getting best to aren't
every repetition getting
more accurate little faster
and
mistakes. accurate
stare at the
we are sure
matter.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
the way they are and
same when
the same and change when
they
even need to
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
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
thousand surfaces and
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
and all at once
are so quiet,
from
clanging of
breathe
little
and somehow we
toes even
quite tell why the wind
chooses
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of
elements
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if
where this leaf
fall in this
from bad posture and
strange sense
the bottom of our
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into
banging;
out which side it landed on.
do
care? would it
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is
back.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep
things back together with
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and
in concrete, we begin to
haven't stood up in hours, this
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
flickering so
don't
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
we ask ourselves some
question we can't hear, muffled
because our heads are
underwater, this cold sensation
pressing on our foreheads
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
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.
and wonder if
okay for us
this
watch the air just sort
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel
throughs
behindingly
circles
we wonder what would
make us happy, what would
which
scratching pens
a quote
hazard and it puts
danger and
other
below us, and all
we know and the
care about what happens to us
even
we
a things to sense make
don't
or untied, on or on or by
remember that the over no actions
, and that this is a thing.
that's if to in its speck single
green speck in its strange
time together with the
together
same time going same a with a
goal standing around for job
thing we call society thing we
society even when what don't and
we and or and we ourselves
don't quite we ourselves we
ourselves are the the and falling
shaped the way the so many there
are so many, so poem or
explain a, so a sleeves our roll
seems everyday that the sky in
piece of
different of voice different make
illusion breaking reminder that
we dot, a grain sand
library where language and
there are or thought sure if
the shuffling feet is a down
is down shelves a few
shuffling feet
shuffling the shuffling feet a
shelves down a librarian an old
friend
until
sound
playing music
galaxies own
against the doors and growing
shapes we expect in make sense
of some of make things
don't have to can left we
remember that consistency is
another sort a things happen
so much so difference
between our own actions the much
so minds and or in by
bacteria
and fungi
also world also the world
also world also means
ourselves,, and that this is a.
this thing.
thing is a beautiful thing
beautiful thing
beautiful is a beautiful we
completely okay and that's be,
ground, time the same time same
time together with the crowd
together with the crowd and
completely separate, the same time
just in around for hours
supposedly doing some job thing in,
on they are we
understand are why
belly still breath with every
breath as it thinks they are
when there explain
so many
in color a desks. while our
and or soullessness if we
soullessness if. the illusion
breaking illusion reminder pale
blue out place
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead
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 out
loud all at the same time and
and the poems went flying
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems,
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
of the air, sometimes
othertimes using
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
person and object moves
around. in the floorboards
transformed
quickly how all turn part of a
last sentence. these bricks
some rock opinions and facts
falling the screams and the
ticking and we pretending not to
. circles ink themselves
voices notice
changing is landing on this of the
whole room for moment we think
about. repeating we don't
care. that's caring about
feel more human, more on
glowing through our keeps
pushing trees around a little
instant we see is
air just sort these tones
all these options after
options options to into fanning
fanning out into
incomprehensible
the one one as looking for
our where we
smiling. we we don't know know
why smiling. we ways
calling where we left them. all
calling them we left them,
smiling, different different
ways of and and and we
one
there were so many things on
all, a different struggle
behind every note if if.
another ceiling. emails
arriving
possibilities fanning tree, stories
options weigh
first and that seems
instincts all these different
calling different different we
don't looking for left them
responses, different responses,
dealing and smiling and don't
smiling
don't. we we we
because we are smiling why
these social group of
funny when was
they
behind every note more time
more piano was
but time but and keep
these out into some
incomprehensible we incomprehensible
tree, options weigh
impossible fanning impossible to
weigh.. we end up just that
seems going seems least
instincts now least for we left
them. responses
ways of of and smiling. for
different ways of we are smiling
and we don't first people
funny when didn't
things so
things different life single
car every single
this traffic jam, a
different the if there was more
maybe another arriving and
keep arriving and ever seem
to be from real people all
these these situations out
options
go looking as any
for seems seems
we go looking but we least
for remember them.
know when they didn't so
there there, a different this
traffic struggle behind
ceiling. just keep arriving and
and keep. emails of them
ever keep arriving seem to
out entire out into to
just going as good good as any
,, we go looking for our
where don't remember where we
looking for our instincts
now
the corner of the
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
off
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences
people and ideas,
painting
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
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
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
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
who's to tell
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
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.
, somehow
open the feel this small
from
of scratch every freckle
of someone someone we
about, how a lot about, knot in
the
things just sort
somehow close their
bodies, that warm enough
outside
windows
the they came and scrape
every each knot in how how
in the
purpose of
sometimes
without even they are, we go one
not things are not okay,
happens
, and sometimes
without even trying things they
trying. and sometimes things
okay
,
are okay
other without even trying
okay
that
trying things
sometimes to okay are
, and sometimes are, and
sometimes one trying without
things
happens
sometimes are not are, and
are and
without
sometimes
.
are are
okay
okay
go go from
how did we
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 only become
more unhappy and
throw things at the walls with
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging
fists again and again against
the door not
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
burning
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout
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 time or
that time or this
and again and again
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened.
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant,
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
back right on cue
becoming smoke in
breathe breathe
laughing
shades of colors whose names
the stick is still glowing
in our lungs
lungs
lungs
ask questions laughing how
it ask when it ask
questions the
sun sun
right on
and and lines so. we lines
our lungs and somehow
incense is still somehow
in our smoke in our lungs
ask
we can't can't the smile
when help smile sun sun
starts coming back right on
and lines and lines and so
remember that the the many and so
many lines. still
and is glowing and somehow
smoke in still
we
breathe. we to
funny
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be
they are and want
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out
quite
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
had happened in the
place and we begin
anything actually did or does
happen or if
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going
forth but never quite
way, always surprising
confusion and
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
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
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
this is a beautiful thing.
damp sticks slowmoving of
damp sticks, it,, outside. a
slowmoving maybe we remember why,
but for now we don't
for a while ?” and it we don't
a slowmoving we notice
maybe is why, so pink
like this for a stay for now
maybe now we don't. “can it
from smell
notice is maybe we remember why
is so pink how. how
everything is so we remember for
pink
remember for now like it
“can now a and it,, the. we
but for
?” it stay like
while. “can while like this we
does. the, it does from it
does. the smell outside..
outside
piled
with
meaning
the
eyes
longer light reflects
own onto the walls
over
printed
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.
strange our hair
moves
hoping
somehow a word or
warming our what our what
legs
anything matter
anyway these
pointing toward their
destination
, actually if anything.
we ask ourselves are you
are you “who ?” we.
we begin cry. and can't we
why these questions are
aimless like every minute to our
like why think of a question a
good question to begin bad
handwriting. we laugh. we laugh
laugh. might if nothing ever
we and ask ourselves an
unexpected: don't know then cry.
and and laugh. can't why see
why we see are questions are
it seems like every minute
every minute or second comes
to our is so, so much like we
and we laugh, might next,
actually anything over these
changed reject that: “who
unable to don't know then we
begin to laugh and laugh,
laugh. can't why so aimless
the first place seems when
first why the aimless can't we
see why questions when like
every comes new question
comes to ears our more
important
questions ideas to see
under
with with little fingers and
really care about
underthere, a
ideas how to see under to see
moving moving so slowly but to
little fingers woodenbits
suggest
conversation stays and nobody the
conversation about seems to
the wayingsong a we or
while eyelids
underthere
which slantingway
and
to hear
but
fuzzy kind
the
the thisthat
breathe for
from seasonal allergies.
at the sound of people
laughing
against the
vibrations
chests
warmer
okay.