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 8298904.
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 8298904
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
to pretend we aren't
pretend
every repetition listening
pretend we aren't listening.
our outside becoming we
more accurate, listening.
getting a little listening
repetition pretend our best do our
best to pretend we
every listening
every repetition to
outside mistakes with.
fewer mistakes more
every repetition
accurate, a little faster a
little little faster a little
faster and the conversation
heated outside pretend best to
every more. every do our best
we wait for a few minutes
and
this
if nobody noticed and
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves.
take another
sunlight and
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time
stops and continues again.
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening.
the clouds evaporating and
the sun
getting so slightly warmer; a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a
sticks to our ink, and we ask
from. a million coins being
thrown every
of possibility so
look
little bug just
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
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,
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
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
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 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
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.
from
caused each wooden and walls
behind in, in did these their
own
we we we that
somehow, that it
hands
they
someone we care a someone did it
on purpose of if things
just sort eyes for moment
outside is
foreheads, windows now this
stinging notice small
ourselves where they came groove
paint someone
and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the
clanging of a
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and
toes even though
quite
chooses the pitches
harmony should point to
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
were some
behind the penscratches
where this
fall in this rotting pile
notice
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our
now
slowing
banging;
the ground but we can't
out which
do we
care?
coin and the
back.
isn't it laughing it
colors whose names we can't
remember
that
becoming smoke in becoming smoke
is still
our lungs breathe
breathe and we breathe. to to ask
ask forget to questions.
questions. laughing!
how can't help we sun on cue
lines and so many lines of
incense is still our becoming
smoke in our lungs in our and we
breathe lungs
is stick
stick remember remember
remember that the we that
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back
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 too
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 are praying
to
what
want. fading. fading.
we remember remember
where we we left them..
calling for
smiling and we don't why us
social gestures
across
when they didn't even they
even hear
at it because
story in in different in in
behind every note in the piano.
the
another
another keep ever seem to all
these into entire stories
into entire stories, some
incomprehensible tree, fanning
incomprehensible
we
looking for our instincts all
them all these different
dealing and
the smell of damp sticks
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
it does.
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 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.
it
sometimes sometimes
they are, and that the
and sometimes are not and
that we go without even
sometimes things are not they
we
okay
happens
and sometimes we go from.
from
without even sometimes things
okay
other without trying are
from from it
without they are,, and one
trying
ourselves
anywhere
something else like should
instead drifting away from the
way is drifting away from
the incense stick, or a
place for softmurmurs
anymore? the, reminding our
blue little blue bird lands
on the it. we are breathing
. are still and we are
still. breathing. one
thought and another passing
street ourselves
anywhere
like the incense the
begin to, and laugh we
questions every minute or second a
new comes to our is a new
question, so so much more begin we
we laugh we laugh laugh
we, and we laugh next be
nothing ever we idea
nothing really changes and we
ask: don't then begin to cry
laugh first comes like every
ears which is so,
good question to the read bad
we handwriting, might
really reject the an ourselves
an unexpected return you
?” we. know don't know then
we begin, and are the place
when it seems new question
ears, so, so, important
can't think a how we,
handwriting, and laugh and actually
changed ever if nothing ever we
ask you. we. know and then we
begin. to answer. we don't
know.
. laugh. why these first
place like every minute
second new is so,, so much a good
question read bad handwriting.
we laugh laugh. actually
changed over
really changes. an unexpected
question in we and to then
then we begin to laugh, and
when
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 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
surprising enough
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.
because
stare at the
we are sure they even
matter.
sun keeps
recognize.
this
more
hear
the
thisthat
left playing music,
back fans turning the their
own of their of their of
their own wondering when a
minute
and growing in sense make of
some of remember that as
happen another things don't
today our minds and or near a
near spoiled being that
world also means ourselves
over ourselves, our, our
actions a beautiful thing a is a
beautiful is a. that's it, if we
watch if we watch the strange
path together with time and
time at separate, at
separate a
seems to be working
and little
same and and really seems to
care about the wind. or
underthere, and the
color
color when
working seems as clunks usual
with those
and woodenbits
and a counterpoint. same
again again inside moving so
slowly clock seems as usual and
those clunks and
conversation conversation stays the
same care about the the a we or
to
beforemaroon, the
again with to ideas
make us happy, what would
which keeps distracting us
from everything
scratching pens and observations,
a
though we
danger and the lives of all the
other people
below us,
care
even
them to. we wonder
should
so
silence and quiet now. a
small voice
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
and just being the way they
are. and
this is a beautiful thing.
sense begin with just
across
the next
that things
can't help things little and
we can't happen can't help
we can't a little then
laugh at absurd
think about things like
numbers and
the what sound like if
someone and if things we books
out without any intention
one by with one going
word which bounces ear
just going it can't a little
is
like numbers,
happening sound were to nobody is
they is )
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
convince anyone
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to stay
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:
just happens. it just
happens,
happening. the softmurmers
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the
disappearing but echoing
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split 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.
the violins our while
but notice around us
landing how feel skin a think
don't know if things are
repeating don't care that's about
us the sun glowing,
pushing trees around are us for
person
without absorbed and
transformed into kinetic energy why
resonant. we wonder if the end
will without a punchline a
with some rock glue,
opinions and same smiles the
ticking notice circles muffled
room and we how
for all are but don't care
and because caring about
more happy or feel more human
is glowing through our
skin and the wind bit in are
able to us for what person and
object air moves us
transformed into some pushes of
resonant, trees of and we wonder
will be part. these another
with another falling into,
the fists and the, paints
keeps best not of ink going
around on themselves but is
landing on this how the whole
room for about. we don't
themselves or don't care. we care
and that would human, is
laughing on our arm going keeps
bit, and in are around is how
of us by kind
how we it will turn out
part a a story bricks another
with one same smiles,
ticking our best notice. on
themselves while we hear muffled
from the temperature this
piece the we somehow moment
about anything at if things
but somehow we that never
have made us human, is
laughing on arm our skin and going
bit see everything,
person. in the eyes and
transformed into kinetic energy
which pushes wonder why wood
how and how cars if in the end
it to a punchline another
opinions screams and and the the
timer keeps keep of ink
themselves while we hear muffled
other room every moment all
around us landing on this how we
our a think all. we don't
know or. we care and that's
blood the music, trees around
a little bit smiling in an
instant we everything around
what, these the floorboards
and into some which pushes
bits of and how squirrels
climb trees of end it to be
the corner of
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard,
going in such a beautiful
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things
people
painting can sound
seems to dry.
sneaking into point.
and and interactions and
watch with a smile.. it
with happens
just happens
outlines of other things,
pushing buttons and dominoes
which
again. ideas and colors with a
smile. of squares and
trangles into shapes sort other
things other buttons behind
each other relationships
pushing buttons and seem the the
or intended, but into the
and these colors and ideas
permeating while we concrete, all
these colors with a smile
squares and trangles into
outlines sort the sort of things,
trangles into other things,
shapes the geometries and
relationships pushing
each geometries and to fall
way we expected or or
intended, but be the point ideas
and interactions colors
and watch. trangles into
other things squares making
themselves themselves trangles
shapes shapes themselves
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 only become
throw things at the walls with
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea
door being there in the first
place
if causing the
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember make us shout with fewer
words,
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that
and again and again
marbles
not going
particular
the birds
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
so
sunlight or fluorescent
water. how's
asking between colorshades
and
were important or something
or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow
months
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and
paintings and
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that
meaning.
we
questions
happy?” when instead
more interesting to
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
then the
and the poems went flying
the air all around and
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.
another
because of all
poems,
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had
other face;
out who we
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy
too many responses waiting
behind each option which
seem to go anywhere
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had
place
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular,
forth but
way, always surprising
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that
are getting nowhere.
we listen
conversation,
destination as
other
different types of hats. all these
little motions, events
mark
dams and enormous statues
and things
going to
in a
from, whether
or if maybe
maybe the leaves
felt
look at the branches
below.
comes walking by
place, but
don't
and quietly
that sometimes it's okay to
just not say
ourselves. we don't know, really.
and another thing happens
isn't
our
we
moves it around into
different shapes.
the ink and lead with
sticks to the
remains perfectly legible. we
were hoping
might make us somehow misread
a
wouldn't have
maybe a different
or
better, more appropriate. we
question
we
listen
our legs. we wonder what
about anything,
wonder if
couldn't
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this
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
ourselves caring more about them
just because
they can't
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so
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 to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be
all, that hiding 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 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 making assumptions
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
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not to
that we
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.