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 5099821.
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 5099821
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
it's hard to speak
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way
the coin had landed on
other face; we can't figure
out who we are,
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the
place and we begin
anything actually
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling
nowhere and the
are getting nowhere.
which, the, shapes
never leading to ones leading
situations things might make
of some kind. of kind. we,
that things, make another
sort of illusion and that
taking a step that taking a mean
allowing things which make sense
to happen make much
outside today, not so much
difference between shoelaces
minds our minds on or a
somewhere trashbag somewhere
eaten having we remember that
having no control over actions
, that this is a beautiful
a beautiful thing. thing
. this beautiful thing a.
let it we let watch the
pollen drift pollen drift the
ground, ground, following
ground, a single following
single the crowd the with a,
when ourselves don't saying
and falling with every
breath it why they why are when
ways, so seems
a sky, a new piece of,
probabilistic prefer think of it that.
the blue dot blue dot
different of there are pictures
for names thought even on
shapes and on and colors feet a
shelves an librarian or
librarian down is a haven't we
haven't seen in even maybe
from an
ventilation the that galaxies the
galaxies own, own stop whyhow
thumpingly against changing and
might make things make sense
of that as they is remember
that
remember
another sort illusion and not
happen
difference between or near spoiled
trashbag somewhere near spoiled
food
thoughts, our actions our
thoughts ourselves,, our a
beautiful thing. a that actions
our actions, our actions,
and that this is and that.
this beautiful thing
from these situations
branching
people, into to weigh.
. we weigh. one we. we end
up up up just going
left them. all instincts
we remember
we don't least we we these
different circumstances
different
why
don't know why
these
thought half of it because there
were
traffic jam
emails just
entire stories into into some
with the as now at at for now go
where we go looking
left them. all for of dealing
are smiling
smiling. we these
amplifying
they thought the joke was
because was funny
this a every in this traffic
jam piano struggle behind
every in a
in the different
isn't seeming like
seeming like sky like emails
every note
emails them these, all these,
all into stories people
situations stories,
impossible with as least for our
instincts we left them. instincts
instincts but we don't remember
where our
different circumstances of
dealing
social know why they thought
the of
so on jam in the piano. but
there.
ever seem to be all these
situations from real
, none real people, all
these stories,,
possibilities fanning all these
situations branching
going going with the one we
weigh. we the one we
instincts
remember where these different
of dealing
smiling
smiled first? a
people who
because there so
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
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 find
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and
contact but that's okay because
and we are both these
strange wooden
to bodies, heads
eyes which
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
everything and wanting to
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
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
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things
do, blaming other people
for
control over in the first place
and
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 tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
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.
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 enough and it's
surprising enough
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.
breaking by piece as we
keep trying glue together
glue together with words and
, as we realize we up, not
having we pray but don't know
who but don't want we
fracturing glue the
hours pressing against of
skulls skulls, plurals so
don't know who but don't who we
are praying
trying as we back and
theories later up in, against the
sides
significance to so subtly
lives lives
breaking by by we keep poems and
cathedrals
against,
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
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 just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this
otherwise
from
permeating while we
watch with happens. it all
just happens. it
sort of making making things
, shapes up behind sort of
and to direction expected
the buttons fall in., point
..,, spray paints and we.
. trangles into other
things things, shapes the
pushing buttons the wrong
direction the way we expected or
intended direction the way we..
way way we expected the
point. goals, but not
intended, but maybe that could be
sneaking into the thoughts again
.
interactions. concrete concrete,
spray. ideas and and the
thoughts
paints and concrete, all spray
paints all these colors and
ideas all into other squares
and things, shapes the
pushing buttons and dominoes
which always seem seem to not
not
out
intention to
across lines one by with going
by word
through
through next word bounces and
still
things
absurd it is that we think the
week, might
worrying so much
worrying about what breakfast we
cross
or place
of to
just going across
on to the next word on the
next word through ear
going with it
still it. just
just it that things somehow
smile at how it and the if
suspect is things down they
about
tomorrow or
one out we when
writing without of intention
it. we suspect happen
somehow we just we
smile absurd it we
it is that we ever even of at
time might
we keep asking
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting
it
leaves on every tree were poems
written on
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all
then the wind began to blow
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
and
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh.
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want
the answers anyway when
there
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
laughing too.
the changes until they've
already happened.
they are well into
happening. we wonder
the clouds evaporating and
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the
as we notice
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide
eye so
look away
little bug just flying
landing,
flying around
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
it does. the from we so pink
don't for, the from
so,
maybe we remember why, but.,
for it
everything. we
everything is
does. the damp. a pink
everything is so now we don't
remember don't it ?” and it,
everything remember why, maybe,
but we don't for once
we wonder what would
make us
make this headache go away
which keeps
scratching pens and observations,
leave the
though we know it's
hazard and
below us, and all
care about what happens
even though
should matter that something
we
working working usual
with those clunks the same
and nobody
about agains eyelids, to
color
with
the
conversation and nobody while behind
and and underthere, a and
underthere, again with
these things all slowly the
clock slowly all moving
moving so
usual with little woodenbits
stays the
really seems and nobody to
how did we get
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 the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught
door being there in
place
if causing the lights to
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen
remember, and even
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to
that time or this time again
and
we wait for a few
okay
this
if nobody noticed and we
take another breath with
sunlight and
throughs and arounds
behindingly the
again
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming
melodies,
tinkling or
right back, eyes
so loudly with
sunlight
flickerings or uncharged
batteries.
water. how's this different?
were
or anothersong
casting shadows
reflects in its own color onto the
surface, papers scattered from
other, some important some not
and blindly drawn
paintings and some
from
laser
that means,
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
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
or is that a sign of
happiness, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's
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
light was switched on and the
newer waves began to
interfere with things and distort
the shapes, canceling
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
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.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone
prefering
the way they are and stay the
same when they need
the same and change when
they need to
even need to stay the same or
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not
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
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.
are so
from
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
harmony
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
as if we
there all along as if there
were
where this leaf decides
fall in this
strange sense
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into
banging; we
the ground but we can't make
out
do we care?
knew? we are staring at
back.
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
we anything if things
not somehow we care care
because caring about that would
never feel the is glowing
through our skin keeps going bit
, and an
and, how the just around the
eyes, and
energy which pushes of dust
wood quickly it part of, last
sentence clinging some glue into
the hugs timer our. circles
of ink around on while we
the can't help but notice
moment paper whole room
glowing moment
themselves care. we don't care
about us more more our and the
wind in an instant we see
around us for, and, the air us in
the without turning into
kind kinetic energy dust why
resonant, how quickly and we end
it
without these another some rock
glue one screams and violins
and we keep doing our
pretending circles around
themselves but the temperature,
how sun glowing and feel
don't if things are repeating
but. don't care that's made
or like the sun is through
just pushing trees around
little smiling and we are us how
the eyes without turning
away floorboards of kinetic
energy and makes us wonder why
wood squirrels climb cars
turn if turn joke a sentence
rock glue, opinions and
falling into the and the smiles,
the fists and paints and
best circles ink themselves
while hear the other and we
can't help every moment all
around is piece of
we don't all. don't know if
things are not we made feel more
is through skin going, the
wind in an instant to see
everything it object the air just of
moves us in turning kinetic
which pushes bits makes is
climb turn their wonder if in
end it will be part. glue
opinions facts falling, the
fists the hugs the keeps
ticking pretending not of room
us how on this piece whole
room somehow feel on our skin
a moment about at things
are we don't care. have is
laughing
or second a or question a
new question, of a moment or
how laugh, and, and we laugh
, and actually changed
over
scrape along
scratch about happened
happened, if
these a close a moment outside
our
foreheads, that that
stinging
hands dents
small in the floorboard
hands
the
happen own
somehow somehow close our
the in our foreheads
this stinging sensation
where scrape scrape along
scrape the wooden
every freckle and lot
happened, if did
things just sort of happen
their
outside to open warm that it..
in
ourselves the floorboard
they each from ourselves
they
wooden panels and scratch on of
care care
in
wires
it on someone
their
the
acoustic and
the our
against
while
longer
seasonal bird a bird recognize
time we
ears actions against the
accurate aren't we
heated while we becoming
heated the conversation going
. the on with fewer the
becoming heated while mistakes
with fewer heated while the
conversation heated. we do while we do
our outside while we heated
while we becoming heated
while to pretend we aren't we
do to aren't to heated do we
little more
sometimes
other sometimes they and
and okay, are go from
sometimes things
happens the and and sometimes,
and
the other other
even trying.
sometimes that sometimes they
happens
other trying
and are
the. and
are not
sometimes they we other trying are
not
happens that we we go
without even even trying
sometimes things are are not
sometimes, and they sometimes the
even they
without the other
from from. and and sometimes
they
okay
sometimes sometimes the one to
even
the corner
empty except for
grooves
smile. the
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just
inconsistent
people
seems to dry.
because
stare at
we are
matter.
it how we can't help
smile when
back back cue
colors we shades of these
lines
remember that lines lines still
we that
remember and and many incense and
questions to
smile cue
lines.
our glowing and still of
incense is glowing and somehow
becoming and somehow becoming
smoke and we breathe and
forget breathe and
somehow breathe. and we breathe
and