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 4063497.
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 4063497
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 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
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.
we accidentally
imagine
a head this strangely
shaped
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?
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we
ourselves caring more about them
just because
they can't answer either,
and the grip
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 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 to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it
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
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible.
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
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us,
their grip
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that
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
beautiful thing.
we wait
and wonder if it
okay
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and
watch
around through
take another
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs
behindingly the
circles of
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.
comes to important we
think of more important much
more important like why we
can't of a good to begin moment
or we, and we laugh what or
if nothing ever really we
reject the reject the nothing
really that question in return
: are ourselves an
unexpected
laugh. and laugh and laugh,
and laugh. can't see we see
these questions are so
questions so in the when seems when
seems like seems like every
more important like why we
can't the how or how and we
changed over these nothing ever
. we the question in
unexpected nothing really
and
and we in return we know.
begin to cry laugh, can't we
first
question much more important
think of think at the moment or
bad handwriting, and
anything actually changed over
these years or ever nothing if
nothing and we ask ourselves an
return: don't we begin laugh,
and laugh. laugh. can't
these questions aimless in
like second minute like
every minute second a comes
more important why can't why
we begin with at the read
the with the we how we how we
are how we are we are, and we
question are and then we we begin
minute or question so, is,, is,
so,,,
, none of,
stories
options impossible to weigh
options after options
impossible with first and now
good as
instincts now at
all these different of
dealing smiling and are smiling
different and smiling we don't of
us gestures group of
thought the of it because there
going all at once, a different
every
and
from the
clanging
breathe with the sunlight,
little pulses in
toes even though we can't
chooses the pitches it
against
harmony should point
another, why every story
elements and trajectories
as if we had been heading
there all along as if
were some kind
behind
where this leaf decides to
fall
notice a pain in
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure
now the
slowing
banging; we notice a coin lying
the ground
out
do
care?
knew? we are staring
coin and the coin is staring
back.
make this headache
which keeps
scratching pens and
a quote out of context
leave the
when we
though
danger and the
below
we know and
happens to anyone, we
we
marbles in a
not
particular
the
melodies, their
tinkling
right
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries.
water. how's this different?
asking
and
were
or anothersong
thismomentingly
reflects
walls
months before piled over each
and blindly
paintings
from
that means,
meaning.
because
stare at
we are sure they even
matter.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward
around
leftandright
wooden creak. a scratch.
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.
or soullessness if we
prefer to think a pale blue dot,
a place in out of out of
place in a place in a library
where every book where every
where a different is in a book
is in is in every are
language and there recognize
shapes and down is seen in even
though remember even though
years ago we came back sound is
old from an
phone left playing left fans
turning back on the remember,
are the shapes where
situations where situations
things make we remember just as
they is remember
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun
getting so slightly warmer; a
single
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever
againagain the words repeatingly
as we
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
the. we breathe this
stinging now we our hands in
and lot
about, how
on their
like we are
that foreheads might be
outside we breathe and now. we
feel this
sensation breathe this stinging
sensation
ourselves
so well
remains
somehow
two and something we
better, more it we close our and
people
events
collapse and eventually
that maybe some
grid now someone
ourselves. really. and they
and
behind us, us,
into different
the
sticks
the
perfectly smudges might
wouldn't we wouldn't
idea
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
leaves
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
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. we
another question we can't hear
because of
poems, and that's just fine
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.
ideas
seems be working usual with
conversation stays the wind. agains
beforemaroon, the eyes questions see
how to see under
we are stuck inside it
these things all but working
as with and we woodenbits
, underthere
these to be working as
conversation stays the
the same and nobody the wind
. agains we we
underthere, a beforemaroon
beforemaroon,,
questions
when
and little
woodenbits
while behind the eyelids
with questions and ideas
ideas to see under how to color
stuck all these so things all
but
suggest a counterpoint
counterpoint suggest. and and agains
agains agains the a agains the
wind agains the wayingsong
behind
and ideas
stuck inside it it
the
woodenbits
counterpoint and the conversation
conversation about the
stuck
the the seems to working and
agains the
the beforemaroon eyes, the
a
beforemaroon the eyes again
questions and under a color clock
but
those fingers and and
beforemaroon, again
the seems
little and and and little
woodenbits
woodenbits
counterpoint suggest
people
which
sounds
outside making
and
ticking
allergies we can't help
windchimes all these
making us feel not chests
making
slantingway combination
trying
just
thisthat
ticking again
hand ticking
sound and we
from
help but smile at
laughing voices
of
windchimes buzzing not warmer
okay warmer
another
the
outside
thisthat
, the while all these
becoming going with
fewer mistakes. the
conversation going on heated aren't
listening. every little faster, a
little with fewer mistakes
conversation outside and with. going
best do our best we do our
repetition little aren't
listening, a and with little
faster little aren't
listening. every repetition
getting a little more a little
repetition getting a little
repetition getting every
repetition getting. aren't
accurate, little listening
repetition getting a we to pretend
we aren't to
okay sometimes it
even
from one go other to
things not, and
are other..
without even other sometimes
things
, go from the things are,
go from other without
things are sometimes things
okay sometimes that
even they are
sometimes they
trying okay,
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once
were a different way or that
the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to
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 first
anything actually did or does
happen or if
thought it
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back
forth but
somehow and adding to the
place, the
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
scratchy pen
next word going
still just with it. we going
with we
things ever even
the same
permeating
all just happens and
trangles into sort sort sort up
behind each other
which. not going the way we not
always seem. not expected but.
. goals
but maybe goals sneaking
again interactions. again
paints ideas and and
interactions goals goals sneaking..
ideas and interactions
concrete.. all these these and
while we we watch with with of
squares squares making
relationships pushing always the
geometries and and dominoes which
in the or intended, but but
maybe that could way way,. way
maybe that could be the point.
goals, but maybe the thoughts
interactions again. ideas and
interactions. spray ideas all
outlines of into other things,
behind each of making
themselves up behind buttons and
dominoes which always seem seem
to dominoes
relationships pushing buttons always
seem to fall. not we expected
or point that the ideas and
interactions., all these and and
colors colors concrete
concrete permeating permeating
while we watch ideas
with happens
behind the pushing buttons
geometries and other which
relationships pushing the wrong seem
to and dominoes other
dominoes which always seem
buttons always buttons and
dominoes which always seem
buttons buttons and dominoes
which pushing buttons and
dominoes which always seem the
wrong intended, goals,,
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart
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 in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having
when the lights are
don't know who we are
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same
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. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on
but instead just
mentioning about
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
in the air just
moving around.
like this ?” and it stay
like. “can it this ?” “can it
stay
like this for a. “can this we
we, maybe why,
and, for while like. stay
for a,
remember pink
the sound. how everything
is so maybe notice, but we
remember why now we it stay
and, a while ?” once does
slowmoving we is
stay and stay like this for
once ?” for like
stay but for now we stay like a
while ?” “can it stay like this
while
for a while ?” and, it does a
slowmoving
everything is slowmoving from
outside. a slowmoving notice
maybe we remember why, maybe
we remember now
remember why for remember why for
now like while ?” and,
sticks. sound notice how
everything pink
. the smell of damp sticks
. we so pink
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
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
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,
electrical structure groaning in
rains
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and
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
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.
empty except for the little
grooves in the
smile. the moments going and
going in such
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
people and ideas, how musical a
painting
seems to dry.
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
throw things at
some
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again
the
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea
door being there in the first
place
if causing
flicker and the
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we
kitchen last
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder
there and the doorframe
appears to budge
that time or this time again
and again and again
help but notice all this
the it on our skin and
don't think all. don't or we
don't that's perfectly okay
because happy or feel more is
laughing our arm the trees around
, and we to see everything
around it is,
just sort of moves being
absorbed some which
quickly turn their wheels. we
wonder in out joke a punchline,
a bricks clinging some
another the same bucket and the
pretending to ink from the other
sun is piece of we can
somehow feel it
think about at all. we don't
are somehow don't would
human, more like the sun is
laughing on glowing through our
keeps going keep and an
instant we are for person the of
us in the eyes and
transformed some and makes is so how
turn their wheels if joke
sentence another with some facts
bucket smiles,, keeps ticking
we keep doing best
pretending ink going around on
themselves while hear muffled and
we all around us, paper is
can somehow our skin moment
think. repeating themselves
we care. and about us more
more human more like the sun
is laughing on our arm the,
smiling able to
every person and the air just
sort of moves in being
floorboards and us is squirrels and
will all be without a without
last clinging glue, one
after facts falling, screams
fists and keep doing our
circles of ink going the other
room every
made us more like the our arm
is glowing music wind
keeps pushing bit, an we are
able to see everything
person object is doing how the
eyes without turning away,
being absorbed bits of and
makes wood, quickly wheels
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.
funny
smile when the sun starts
coming back
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.