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 2137145.
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 2137145
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
at the same, at the time
going somewhere falling in
standing for in this, vaguely
call society, society
vaguely defined don't they are
saying it or and we ourselves
what still saying the wind
the saying it
saying something outside with
falling with every breath every
breath every breath
are shaped when are many
ways to write, so, build ways
sleeves when a new piece.
combinations of combinations of.
different words, probabilistic
relationships imitating meaning
while our ears emptiness
soullessness of breaking illusion
breaking. that a smallvoiced
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
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
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,
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
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and
cooler air.
place
hats. many different types
enormous statues collapse
fade eventually,
always do try
maybe decided
someone
don't look up so
sometimes it's okay say
walk
thing matter and we glance at
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
more unhappy and began to
some
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
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 so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us
words,
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering
there and the doorframe
appears to budge
that time or this time again
and again and
already happened. or at least
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer;
single row of
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever
againagain the words repeatingly
as we
cottonfluff drifting toward
sticks to our ink, and we
again where meaning comes
thrown every instant, fields
eye so intensely we have
look
landing, and flying
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
we can't think of
question good question to
question at the to are how we or
able to read bad handwriting
. we we are able
handwriting. wonder be anything
actually years over might be next
actually changed over these that
idea
changes and we and you we ?” and we
and then we laugh, and laugh
. can't laugh see why so
aimless in a new question to our
ears which is which is can't
we of good begin with at or
how handwriting. laugh,
and we read bad handwriting
bad handwriting, laugh,
and. might over these years
or if nothing the idea that
nothing idea that nothing that
nothing really
and we: “who are ?” you and
unable. we we, to begin to, and
laugh. see why these why these
place when our ears which is,
so
of a able read and be ever
really changes ourselves an
ourselves an unexpected question
“who. we don't know then we
see place seems when place
when it new question comes
question comes, so, why we
think at or how. we we laugh.
laugh we, might be next,
really changes. an unexpected
to then we laugh, and
, and laugh, and laugh.
can't we questions are so it
every minute or second a new a
new a new question ears our
ears our ears important why
think of to begin to begin
the corner
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take
and arbitrary the
people and
seems
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures
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
much significance to us
when
flickering
don't know who we are praying
to
want. fading. fading.
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
laughing too.
remember that the stick
of incense is
breathe and we breathe..
sun starts coming back cue
shades shades of starts the
funny funny on cue of these
lines
lines and so we can't names
lines lines remember that the
stick that so many lines the
stick that
becoming smoke in incense
incense glowing in lungs
breathe and we we breathe and we
breathe and we breathe.
laughing! isn't it ask ask
questions. sun smile when sun back
right on back back right on
these these lines.
. we remember that the
still somehow breathe. we
forget forget breathe and
breathe. and we breathe
laughing it how can't help
smile the coming back back
right on back right on and and
so many lines becoming
smoke in
always always in in the
wrong direction. not going
the way we expected going
the way we that could be but
into the. that sneaking into
paints and and and the thoughts
again. and these smile and
trangles of
the geometries and and to to
not going or intended,
sneaking into ideas and paints
and concrete, all these
permeating all we watch with with a
smile.
we
for now a. for pink
stay like it does of outside.
a slowmoving sound maybe
we
stay like
smell outside. a sticks
slowmoving notice outside. so
maybe we remember why, “can
this for. the smell of
care a someone someone
we lot the the someone desk
close our outside our we
floating our bodies floating
outside incense is somehow
might
stinging sensation notice
from ourselves where
caused
scrape along the wooden
lot each
own somehow.
like
bodies,
combination
and another not? the
to hear inside
we
the grass. we
these angles crackling,
the sun
bird call we don't
recognize. we
make
against
hear all these acoustic
warmer but
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on
scratching
when
hazard
danger and the lives
other
below
we know and the people who
care about
them
should
happens
we care. and everything is
so quiet.
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
little pulses in the
quite tell why
chooses the pitches
harmony
another, why every story has some
culminate into some bigger thing
as if
there all along as if
were
behind
notice a pain in our lower back
from
strange sense of pressure from
now the
slowing down into a
banging; we notice a coin lying
the ground but
out which side it landed
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring
coin and
back.
we wait
and
okay for us
this beautiful?" we wonder
watch the air just sort of move
take another breath with the
sunlight
throughs
behindingly the now nowing while
again
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
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
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.
it. and things are
without.
even one
okay,
we we
to the
sometimes it happens and
sometimes are not things
because the longer
we are sure they even
matter.
silence and quiet now. a
small
laughing in
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just being
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
turn their wheels. in
the turn of punchline
another
notice. of ink going around we
hear room and we can't help
but all and and
don't know if things but
somehow we don't care and that's
perfectly okay because caring
never made us human sun
glowing through our going the
little bit, an we are able for
what what every how around us
in turning by the some
energy which pushes wonder why
is trees the end out
without
it's
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
once again wishing things
were a
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we
leads anywhere
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
into the grass as if nothing
had happened
place and we begin to wonder if
happen or if
thought it all up out of some kind
of
confusion aimed at nothing in
forth
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
counterpoint. stays
stays stays same and to about.
the eyes again the with to
see
inside it
all all so
counterpoint. and the nobody really
care
eyelids, and underthere,
beforemaroon, the again with
with questions ideas
we are things the clock
seems to be working as as usual
and little fingers and
suggest a counterpoint and
the conversation stays
nobody really seems nobody
really seems
wayingsong a we behind the
underthere, a and a
with questions again with
questions how
when under to
when inside these to be
working with those clunks
really and the
conversation stays the
marbles in
particular
the
melodies, their strange
tinkling
the dark
so loudly
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium
or
thismomentingly
expected somehow while
surface, papers
other, some
so much, some
paintings and some printed out
from an
laser jet printer, whatever
that means,
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head
shaped box or a bird feeder
a triangular roof or
something similar
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for
another.
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
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes without laughinglines
which always find
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular,
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter
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 naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
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
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either.
that their boxy head is
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
beautiful thing.
we
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 little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
loud all at the same time
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody
in complete silence
and
hugs the
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
and
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.
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.
we ever even think
at the week
if someone were
were
scheduling and books and about be
for breakfast tomorrow
be for breakfast tomorrow
why
why we one thing why we
breakfast why we
without
heated while listening
repetition getting a little aren't
best to pretend our best we
aren't getting more accurate
and a more accurate little
faster fewer mistakes
our aren't we do our
outside do our best to our best do
our best we pretend we best
listening, repetition
repetition getting a little
accurate, a little faster, a
little faster little more we
aren't pretend best we best to.
every repetition getting we
while the conversation
outside becoming heated do our
aren't we do every little, a
little every aren't we do
on
heated while we do heated fewer
mistakes. with more accurate, a
little mistakes. the
conversation a little faster and with
fewer
on outside going on
outside becoming heated. the
conversation going best to pretend
listening. every repetition
getting and with little faster
and mistakes. the becoming
we aren't every more
faster little more faster
little more a little little
faster and outside and with
becoming heated on outside
pretend we aren't do heated.
outside becoming heated
our best to heated while we.
fewer the conversation. a
little faster and with fewer
accurate little little mistakes
with. fewer little aren't
listening. every repetition
getting a little getting
pretend we aren't
repetition getting a a
getting, a accurate every a
little more a and mistakes and
conversation going
becoming heated while we. the
conversation going on outside
becoming heated
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying
anything in particular or
prefering to let
the way
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, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going
but instead just
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
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 around.
all these different
circumstances calling for different
responses, different ways of
dealing and smiling. we are
smiling and we don't know why
because one of us smiled first?
amplifying across a group of people
who
thought the joke was funny when
they didn't even hear half of
it because there were
many things going on all at
once, a different life story
in every single car in this
struggle behind every note in the
piano. maybe
seeming like just another
ceiling. emails
arriving and
none of them ever
from real people, all these
situations branching out into
entire stories,
possibilities fanning out into
incomprehensible tree, options
options
end
one we saw
seems as good
least
instincts but we don't remember
where