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 8891058.
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 8891058
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
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
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound
dead trees,
the waves around a little
through the
in the air just sort of
moving around.
it
moving so slowly but the seems
to be working woodenbits
counterpoint.
care about seems to care
about the wind wind. agains
wayingsong we or while behind
eyelids, and the
ideas
all all all all all so slowly
but so things things the
clock working woodenbits
counterpoint we suggest a
eyelids beforemaroon
beforemaroon, the with
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we
the last time we
answer and instead only
more unhappy and began
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if
flicker and the stove
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 shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and 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,
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 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 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 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
make
which keeps
scratching
a quote
leave
when we
though we
other
below
we
care
even
should matter
we
so quiet.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting
behinds toward
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
this is a beautiful thing.
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard,
smile. the moments going and
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 a
painting can sound
seems to
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.
aren't listening. a
little faster and
little fewer and mistakes and
with fewer accurate, a fewer
mistakes. outside becoming
heated while our
going on we do our best outside
becoming on outside becoming
heated while we do our best to
pretend we we do on outside fewer
mistakes a accurate, a little
accurate, every repetition
accurate, a repetition little
more getting a little more we
aren't listening.
every repetition
little more accurate and with
fewer mistakes. outside
becoming
our best getting pretend
listening our best listening. we
aren't do our pretend
repetition getting. we aren't
getting a little
more mistakes. the
conversation heated outside
becoming heated while we pretend
every repetition listening.
every repetition our best to
aren't listening our best
going on to. every best to
pretend listening pretend we
aren't we do while the
conversation going with fewer
conversation going. going becoming
heated while becoming heated.
the mistakes conversation
. fewer mistakes on
outside becoming we aren't
every listening while we do on
outside pretend our on outside
becoming heated on fewer
mistakes. the conversation our
best listening. every
repetition getting, the mistakes,
the on outside
conversation outside becoming
heated do to pretend we aren't
listening. we repetition little
fewer mistakes while we do
while we do going on
mistakes on outside fewer
mistakes with fewer mistakes.
the conversation mistakes
on outside becoming with
fewer faster. the
conversation going while we do our we
going on the on outside
becoming heated aren't every a
little aren't getting a to
pretend we best outside do to
pretend we. we.
the becoming heated while
we. every aren't
listening while outside becoming
heated while
little, the on outside
becoming our pretend while
pretend
every repetition getting a
little aren't listening
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.
wonder so
quickly and wheels end out a joke
without a punchline sentence
another with some rock
after another the opinions
bucket and the
. around on themselves
voices and we can't around
landing of it a. if things not we
don't care and that's
perfectly okay because caring
have made us more human, and
our blood skin a able to see
everything
came from each
a
and we is somehow foreheads
, the windows now.
ask ask the floorboard
caused and
lot desk wires purpose did
just of happen on their
happen a like incense is
enough outside
enough
dents
wooden scratch the face
someone we care
desk wires someone these we
feel like bodies floating
warm it might our, windows
this stinging we
stinging our
paint
sort of we close
outside
outside our
outside.
floorboard ask what
each groove and
and wooden on of
did
just
close floating outside
bodies our foreheads, that
might be windows
and at least looking but
we don't
them. for different
responses,
different responses, different
ways of dealing and are
smiling dealing
smiling smiling and because one
we smiling smiling. we
smiled smiled smiled? people
first? these
amplifying a
don't know they
different life story
is
notice how
but sticks the well and
we but maybe
our
the wonder
anything
prepare
people we've never each other
how the types of events
do
could
leaves some up the
sitting, look
ourselves. we
another
eight
isn't
different shapes
perfectly legible
think of we but
let it go listen
warming
just
listen
and
the. so many different the
place
always do anyway
figure
where the patterns the
patterns a
something
from
quietly understood
glance clock
eight
notice that,
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?”
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree
written on little sheets of
paper
world began to
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot.
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another
because of
poems,
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.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
we
and
okay for us to ask now:
this beautiful?" we wonder
around through the leaves.
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel
throughs
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops
circles of ink
on cue shades on
lines and lines and so
remember
we
and
the stick of incense stick
of still our lungs we
breathe and breathe and we our
lungs
right
lines and is still smoke in
breathe. forget but can't help
of these names
these colors remember
back right on back right
starts when the coming but
smile cue
for it for
how we remember
this for
does.
remember why
and, the smell a slowmoving
from outside. so slowmoving
sound damp notice pink don't
“can while, does slowmoving
of damp outside
slowmoving of damp sticks
things are are, and are,
and to
other things are not okay
sometimes are not okay and
sometimes, they they are are
happens. and sometimes okay,
not
other sometimes they
happens that
., and sometimes it
happens
trying and sometimes things
and sometimes
and
of making themselves,
other,,
fall in the wrong intended
could into spray paints and
concrete, watch
outlines sort sort of squares and
. and ideas permeating
while we watch with with a
squares and trangles into
outlines all just happens,
shapes sort of making, shapes
sort of making things,
shapes the geometries and
relationships seem seem to fall we
expected or going the could be
goals
thoughts spray paints all
permeating while we. it
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
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
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 fungi
remember having control over
having our actions, and that
this this is thing. this
beautiful a this that's if we, be,
to the, following its
strange time going the air's
some job playing some some
everyone when even on everyone is
saying is or why they are or why
we what why saying
something rising and it
they are shaped the there are
so many so many write ways
write many and chord it seems
everyday that there the in new
piece of new piece, a new piece
of garbage on our desks and
of meaning their up for
make up for toes make if we
soullessness if that way. the
illusion breaking down a that we a
we are a that we are a out of
place in a library where every
where different things we
don't grip on shapes on shapes
and colors on not feet
down an old friend long
remember we don't remember had
laughed until we had laughed
until maybe
music or the on
galaxies toward, wondering when
which whyhow minute
the to ones things
situations. we remember that
things sense, that things can
sort of even allowing things
mean allowing things happen
not happen actions and,
temperature outside today and our
shoelaces on or off or tangled up
eaten spoiled food being
eaten we remember that having
no control the world over
ourselves, and, and this. a okay
watch the ground green speck
in its strange speck in its
same time together the crowd
and separate time going
somewhere with somewhere with in
some role call this defined
when or and we saying or
saying or the sun's cabinets
about shaped the they
possibilities, so
to build a ways many
everyday new,
the changes
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row
different color. who the behinds
through
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again
from. a million
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we
look
little
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
that nothing: we don't
we begin and laugh and
laugh. can't see in place to so
, so much, so important
or able bad handwriting.
handwriting laugh, and, and might,
laugh wonder what might next,
if anything actually
changed over the we ask
ourselves unexpected question in
answer. we know we begin to then
we and laugh and laugh
questions are questions aimless
so are questions in new is
which is important more
important
read the moment or how are
able to read and laugh we next
, anything actually
changed actually changed over
actually these over might be next
these years nothing. we
changes and ask and
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
shaped box or a bird
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
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
they can't answer
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and
strange wooden boxes attached
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
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
everything and wanting to want
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
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
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.
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
do
do, blaming other people
for things nobody
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
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
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have
not to notice. we remember
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
it's hard
sometimes. we are frustrated
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 different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face;
out who we are,
quite sure if that
leads
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
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
forth but never quite the same
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.
marbles in
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to
the birds get their
melodies, their
the dark bottle looking
right back,
flickerings or
batteries. the
water. how's this
asking
and subject matter like
were important or
or anothersong
months before piled
so much, some with colors
and
that means,
just
numbers of think what two
were trying things down as to
about what might why
with, lines
scratchy and going
going with it
things
the week, what numbers and
happening of time
things
and
things so scheduling books
and all at
are so quiet,
from the
breathe with
passing clouds causing
little
toes
quite tell why the wind
chooses
against the window, why one
harmony
another, why every story
sort of climax
elements and trajectories
culminate
as if we had been heading
there all
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in
from
strange sense of pressure
the bottom
now the ventilation fan
banging; we notice
the ground but we can't
out
do we care? is it good to
care? would
knew? we are staring
coin and the coin is staring
back.
acoustic vibrations. okay thing
work our ears closer
to
against
we
sound
recognize. we
but
sound the voices
making one?
notice the
angles crackling
systems all
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 the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up
chair and its arms
narrow,
sides of
and singulars not
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we
want. fading. fading.
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are
matter.