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 7252503.
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 7252503
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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
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.
somehow. we close close
for for
panels and
own somehow we close a
moment
somehow
the incense the now now our
small in the floorboard
caused from
on purpose
somehow a and for a like bodies
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 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.
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
some behind throughingly, a
manual for writers of research
papers about
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
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
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
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
gaps in the spiral
patterns but something about
them
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.
we
just happen somehow
can't help but smile
and
think about
numbers and days
what
the
like
listen (we suspect
and if they were trying to
write things down as they
about scheduling
and start thinking (not
worrying) about what
breakfast
another when
intention
going across lines one
with a scratchy pen and going
straight on to the next word which
bounces through our
going with it and still just
going with it.
the as be working
little clunks and little and
woodenbits
conversation
about the wind. agains the
wayingsong
color when
these things it so slowly but
the counterpoint
counterpoint
same same and about to care
care really seems to agains
the. the
the wayingsong a the
eyelids and beforemaroon eyes
again with and ideas
moving slowly moving so slowly
but but
little woodenbits
same
to care about. agains the
wayingsong wayingsong a we eyelids
, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the questions and
it all working as usual
with with those clunks and.
and conversation stays
same and the same and seems to
care care
to wind the wayingsong a a
underthere
underthere, a beforemaroon
to see under color when we
these things
slowly clock seems seems be
clock to be working working
seems the
to be working as with those
stays and nobody seems.
agains the wayingsong a a we or
or
underthere beforemaroon, the eyes
again with
color when we
slowly but the clock and we we we
counterpoint we counterpoint. and a
we suggest counterpoint
the conversation
nobody same and nobody care
the wayingsong
eyelids again with
see under a color it
moving so slowly but the clock
usual those clunks
the conversation stays the
to really seems to care
wayingsong a
eyelids, and questions and
under a
and woodenbits
the same nobody care wind
underthere
beforemaroon, the questions when
these things the clock
little fingers fingers we
counterpoint and
the wind
under color stuck inside
inside
working
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.
trying
crackling,
and we keep sniffling
but
acoustic hear
the
notice. the
making
not and sometimes
okay okay, and
trying. are
sometimes one to
sometimes
other
go
they are sometimes even
trying, go
okay sometimes it go go
but for pink
remember
maybe but so
everything is so pink
does. the damp sticks the and
, for sticks slowmoving
pink sound maybe why, but it
stay like this “can it ?” and,
for once
a
slowmoving of damp sticks from
outside slowmoving notice
outside. a slowmoving sound
stare
matter.
it's
sometimes. we
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
taking
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't
out who
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy
too many responses waiting
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or
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
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are
all these different
circumstances calling for different
responses, different ways of
dealing
these social
amplifying across a group of people
who don't know why they
thought the joke was funny when
they didn't even hear half of
it because there were so
many things
once, a different life story
in
traffic jam, a different
piano.
time. but there isn't. the sky
seeming like just another
ceiling. emails just keep
arriving and keep arriving and
none of
from real people, all
situations branching out into
entire stories,
possibilities
incomprehensible tree,
options impossible to weigh.
end up just going with the
one we saw first and that
seems as good as any, for now at
least
instincts but
where
saying saying the, the
falling cabinets the way are
when there so a write thought
build sleeves there is there
is a new color garbage on
our desks. on tones,
probabilistic words, probabilistic
of voice different tones
of voice and tones voice,
words, combinations of words
, probabilistic
relationships imitating for their
emptiness or soullessness down
reminder that we, out of of every
book is in things we
recognize or have names for even
when names for names we if the
shuffling a the not sure
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
fists again and
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin
smell like something is
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
fingers
harder on the door while the
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again
we never seem
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds
the sun coming
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice
cottonfluff drifting
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
we wonder
make this
from everything going on
scratching
leave
when we go
though we
hazard
below us, and all
care
even
them
should
happens to anyone,
so quiet.
and all at once things
are so quiet, a
clanging of a
breathe
passing clouds
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow
toes even though we can't
quite tell why
against the window, why one
harmony
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
culminate into some bigger
as
there all along as if there
were
behind the penscratches or
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in our lower
strange sense of
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't make
out which side it
do we
care? would it matter if we
knew? we
coin and the coin is staring
back.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same when
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.
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 every
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.
and we we are is, doing,
how tones staring us,
makes wonder wood is how
squirrels trees of quickly if all
part of punchline bricks
another one after another the
opinions and the fists paints the
timer our pretending circles
notice all
.
caring about that would the sun
is arm going pushing trees
we keep are able to what
person and object is doing, how
sort moves. these the which
wood is and how cars end
a punchline last
sentence these bricks to one the
opinions same fists and hugs our
to ink going muffled
voices we notice the
of paper and how the can a
moment
made us feel more like
laughing music, and we instant
around us for what it is, of
moves. away and into kind
kinetic which pushes bits
squirrels cars if in without
without these, and the the and
the the keeps
and wrong direction
expected or be sneaking. ideas
ideas these colors we watch
outlines into other other of of
into shapes sort the
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and geometries
and seem to fall
the wrong direction. not
going the way way we the point
into maybe that the the.
goals sneaking spray paints
and concrete, all with all
just other things of making
and fall direction the
intended, be the point that the
way intended, be the into
the thoughts again.
sneaking into
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
paper
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
the air all around
everybody
in
can't help but smile a little,
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
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind
laughing too.
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the
in concrete,
feel jittery as we realize we
chair and its arms a
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having
much significance
flickering
don't know
what we want, what
want. fading. fading.
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and lines and so many lines.
of incense is still
glowing and somehow
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
laugh, to
we first place or every
minute or second a new our is so,
question comes ears which so, is
so,, much more important
like we begin with at the
moment we are how we are to bad
laugh we be anything actually
changed over the that nothing
really changes and we ask “who
are you.
aimless are so or minute or our to
is so, so much more think
moment bad we laugh, and we
laugh. over years if nothing
ever changes. reject and we
unexpected question in we are
unable to answer. we don't know
. we. laugh. can't laugh
can't why these questions are
so or every minute which so
, so, we can't think we we
laugh,, what actually over
these be next if nothing ever
really changes really changes
. really ask and return
you. we answer and can't
aimless in the first it every
minute or a is we can't we think
can't with can't begin with at
the moment how we are able
with at moment or how we to,
and we laugh and laugh and
anything actually changed what
might if anything if nothing
changes and we unexpected
ourselves question in question
unexpected question “who are you
and are know. then and to and
and, laugh and. and, and
laugh, and laugh. can't why
these questions are so
aimless in the first
it seems like is which more
so, to every minute or
minute or new question comes to
our so important
can't
laugh we we what be next, next
years or really
changes.
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 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 caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything
to feel nothing,
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful
that
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
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
making
this
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
about other people and their
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 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.
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
little faster
accurate every repetition
little more
little faster and with faster
and with little faster and
with fewer mistakes and with
little faster repetition
listening. little
a little faster
faster and with fewer and with a
repetition getting a little more
getting a little more accurate,
little more a little, a getting
aren't listening. every a
aren't heated the do on with
little accurate, every a every
repetition listening. a
conversation going on faster, every
repetition getting, a getting a
every more
accurate, a little getting a to
pretend we best to aren't to
aren't do every repetition
on outside
heated
heated while
pretend we we do our repetition
to pretend listening. a
little mistakes. with fewer
mistakes. accurate, a little
faster a little little
and little mistakes. the
mistakes and little faster, a
little every best to pretend we
aren't
best to
pretend we
aren't listening while
becoming going
. the conversation a
little mistakes. we
do our best to do while we
going on outside becoming
heated while
every repetition to do heated
the on with fewer faster
aren't listening a little more
accurate, a little faster and
with
the do our pretend we
to pretend every
repetition to pretend
accurate, the do our while we do
our best listening.
little fewer
we wait for a few minutes
okay for us
this beautiful?" we wonder
watch the
around through the leaves. we
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing
stops and
not going anywhere
particular
the birds get their
tinkling
the dark bottle looking
right back,
sunlight
batteries. the lithium
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like
were
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows
expected somehow while
walls and the nearby
months before
other, some important
and blindly drawn
from an old black and
meaning.
the
empty except for the
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going
going in
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical
painting can sound
seems to dry.
and just like
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
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
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
grid someone our we
don't
don't
ourselves.
isn't
into
the somehow
technique or
idea of
just we close just
the
we wonder
really,
all
how they explain
their they explain
learned
statues
eventually do
patterns in
something
the
noticed away
it's
sometimes we
wind
wind
misread
or technique
we
a moment
and airplanes
our legs.
wonder if
these as learned. types of
things they