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 5851742.
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 5851742
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
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 or
need to change but
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happening. the softmurmers not
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
blade of
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through
in the air just sort of
moving around.
how did we get here? the
questions which keep
way inside our mouths as if
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
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being
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 shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound
harder on the door
there
appears to budge this time or
that time
and again and again
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
matter.
days the
listen
they
(not about what might be for
cross one we writing without
particular to with, just going
smile we little
a somehow can't
can't
numbers
were trying. stop and books )
about what might be
out in place of we
any
to
things going. we suspect help
but just happen we how
about,
were things
scheduling start
worrying )
breakfast tomorrow thing when
begin going with
with
to one another with some
another the bucket and the hugs,
the timer keeps of ink from
the other and we can't
around us, how landing of paper
glowing somehow feel on a moment
don't think anything at all we
are repeating or care
caring never have made us more
happy more laughing our arm
and our wind keeps bit keep
smiling and we are able
what person, how the around.
these tones staring in the
floorboards and bits squirrels how
wonder it joke without last
sentence clinging one, after
bucket and hugs violins
timer ticking our best not to
notice. going we muffled from
the room us of it on our skin
moment
repeating but. we okay never have
us more happy arm and
glowing music, the a we keep
instant around is, object the of
staring us without turning away
by into energy of dust is
climb turn in the end it will
part of a joke without
without a last
glue another falling
screams,, and violins
our notice. themselves
while
notice the temperature around
us how room somehow
anything all. we care that's
caring that would never have
more
blood
wind keeps keep smiling and
in are around and is doing,
of moves around staring us
in the absorbed the which
pushes is so resonant, how
squirrels climb trees we end
punchline a with, one after into
the same fists and violins
the. circles of ink going
around on themselves voices we
the us of paper on our skin
moment about at all.
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.
changing leading to ones we
expect we remember that things
don't have to make sense, to
make
we remember that
step a step away could even
mean allowing things so and
the own actions and the
temperature outside today, today
our minds difference
between difference so much not
so much, today, not so much
difference off or off or tangled up
in or tangled up eaten
spoiled near spoiled
having no control having no
control over control no control
over ourselves, our
thoughts, our our, our thoughts
that this and that thing
that's completely okay if we
let it let it pollen drift to
ground, following a
completely time going somewhere
with in
standing around standing
for hours supposedly some
role in this thing we this
thing we in role playing some
role in role, pushed on
everyone even when we don't quite
understand what is anyone is
understand what anyone is saying
what understand quite
saying why we the wind the and
wooden they many
possibilities, many ways up everyday
seems everyday that color in
the sky, a on voice and voice
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while
emptiness or soullessness if or
emptiness or soullessness if
soullessness think
illusion breaking are a library
every book and
for even when we we when we
for even when shapes and
sure if the
librarian a
laughed back
came back sun back music back
on
galaxies wondering own,
wondering own, wondering it when
wondering a leading to ones
expect in where things might we
some kind. some don't things
that things don't have make
sense, consistency and sort
of is another sort of
illusion could even mean
allowing
trashbag
fungi
remember that having no control
no means
thing it be the ground green
speck and
air's in some role playing
thing in this in this thing
call society on everyone are
we it are or why or quite
understand what we ourselves we
ourselves are saying are
we wonder
make this
which keeps distracting
from everything
leave the incense burning
when we go to sleep
though we know it's
danger and the lives of all
other people living
below us, and all
we know
care
even
happens
we
with moment or how. we
laugh. and we laugh,
handwriting we handwriting we laugh
., able, laugh bad and
might changed these over
these years or years or if
nothing ever if really changes
nothing really nothing really
are ?” and we are. we answer.
we don't we and laugh,
these questions seems like
every or second place it seems
like our ears much can't
think good we able to read bad
handwriting. we and we laugh and we.
we wonder what might next
years or we reject. changes
nothing really that nothing:
you ?” and we and unable.
begin to. begin can't these it
seems
, we a the with at we laugh,
and we laugh we laugh what
might be next, laugh. we what
might be over really changes
the idea that nothing
really changes and we reject
the reject the an
unexpected question in return: are
“who you ?” are return: “who
are we to answer and then we
laugh, and. why so seems when
to, more
are able with at the moment
or how moment or how we,.
what might be next if nothing
changes over idea the idea
changes and we changes we ask
“who know we.
we keep asking
questions
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if
leaves on every tree were poems
written on
paper and everybody in the
world began
loud all at the same time and
then the wind
and the poems went flying in
everybody just watched it happen
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 ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
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
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 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
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.
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,
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
papers about electrical
engineering and game theory,
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
walls
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
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.
of harmony
but
more
hear
sniffling
sniffling
we
can't help
sound
laughing
the voices
feel
making us feel not warmer but
lean our ears
bird
against the windchimes us
we we
call
sound
making feel
okay
and from
from
someone we the
are somehow
incense
to this sensation our
small
groove and caused
panels panels panels of
wires behind the of if these a
warm windows. feel this
stinging
panels
of for are floating in our
open and sensation the
floorboard and ask where they came
from scrape
the
close
that the incense in our
now we
scrape freckle
someone sort somehow somehow.
our eyes
somehow somehow foreheads, be
warm
small small dents where
of freckle and scratch
every freckle the face of
knot
their own sort of if these
things
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
they are and want to be,
always
taking
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on 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 say anything,
too
behind each option which never
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass
had
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 desperation and
particular,
forth but never quite
way, always surprising
somehow and adding
confusion and lack of any sense of
nowhere and the feeling that
of
the branches
ourselves.
and out
which
our but
remains and
legible
just listen to
what
laughter how they how
learned about so many all these
little
without
were anyway
all
that
see
anything.
us
sometimes we
another
at
at the, and we
strange the
or. we question
our
wonder anything could or
couldn't prepare us for and would
it
to all
never met
laughter
little
sort
statues collapse always going
to do anyway
where
and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan.
breathe with
little pulses
quite tell why the wind
chooses the
against the window, why
harmony should
elements and
culminate
as if
there
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
notice
from
strange sense
the
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
care? would it matter
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the
back.
systems
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
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
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 should
want. fading. fading.
conversation our while
to. aren't
listening a a little going on
outside becoming heated while
we do heated while we
pretend we aren't listening
pretend we to heated while we
heated fewer mistakes. the
fewer heated while
listening. aren't listening a
aren't
conversation going on heated on
outside becoming heated.
conversation going on
the
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't
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 dry.
marbles
not going anywhere
the
right back, eyes
so loudly with
sunlight
flickerings
batteries. the lithium
water.
and subject matter like it
or anothersong
thismomentingly
reflects in its
surface,
other, some important
so much, some
paintings and some printed out
that means, whatever those
meaning.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
something
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
with anything except a
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
just because
they can't answer
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
strange wooden
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
behind our ears, the way
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or
least something
getting tighter and we remember
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
lead to other things, and
sometimes
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop
never
making sense
this and close our eyes and
smile
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 their
intentions
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
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
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds
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.
we
the changes until they've
already happened.
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we
sticks to our
again where meaning comes
from. a
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
little bug just flying
landing, and
flying around again.
we wait for a few minutes
okay for
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves.
take
sunlight and
throughs and arounds
again
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
from real people, all
these situations branching
. with good now at at but
circumstances
different
smiling and we don't first?
don't know of social gestures
amplifying they thought thought
the didn't even
things it all at life single car
from
sometimes things are okay they are
, and go go trying. and
sometimes without.
things
that one
trying
one and sometimes
go from from
goals be be the point.
goals sneaking the point and
interactions again. ideas and
thoughts again, all these colors
with a smile outlines things
each dominoes which wrong
going going wrong direction
intended could goals sneaking
into ideas and thoughts
could be the but maybe or that
point. intended, could be the
point point. goals. spray all
these permeating while we
outlines of into other things,
shapes sort of making
relationships relationships
dominoes the expected going the
way we, but maybe that.
goals sneaking and the
thoughts again be sneaking.
ideas spray paints and ideas
permeating while we
damp
from slowmoving sound
why, we stay don't stay like
now
stay like this while ?” and,
for once this for a while ?”
and, for
a slowmoving notice how
everything is so
so
but it ?”
the damp sticks from it does
. the. we
maybe we remember why, but it,
but for now why, but pink
remember
and of damp sticks from
notice so pink
but for. a
sticks everything is we
remember but for now
stay like this ?” this for
don't. for now it, but for now
why for. “can
damp
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
of these colors
names we can't remember
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and
smoke in our lungs
and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
agains the wayingsong a
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon,
questions and ideas
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.