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 4996856.
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 4996856
it is 2022. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
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
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
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
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
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
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
patterns but something about
them which makes us
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.
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe
little
and
quite
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has
sort of climax where
elements and
culminate into some bigger thing
as
were some kind of purpose
behind the
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
from
strange sense of
the
slowing down
banging; we notice a coin lying
the ground but we can't make
out which
do
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are
coin and the
back.
because the longer we
we are
matter.
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
place for rushing anymore?
the softmurmurs again,
reminding us about our breath: and
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.
of incense is in
and we we breathe questions
laughing can't help but we can't
can't can't back smile
the the sun starts help but
starts the sun starts these
colors lines and lines and so
lines and and so lines
remember
we ask ourselves some
question we can't
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.
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a
something similar and we are
sitting in the
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think
another. we aren't able
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 they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
everything and
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
that poetry and music
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 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
smile a little
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 their
intentions and what they
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
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
beautiful thing.
we our eyes for a we
our
, outside to
floorboard and ask
they came from
purpose these things sort of
incense is
open and now
floorboard from
groove and scrape wooden
panels along
and scrape what caused the
wooden
things just of happen just sort
our the incense our our
foreheads might we
ourselves where they came
freckle
somehow in
where
wooden
and walls
own sort of happen
and feel like floating
in be
open
and
floorboard and ask they ask
ourselves in
paint
scratch every
knot in
things we close close
eyes
somehow
stinging in our our
notice
ourselves what
and
about wires behind the desk on
eyes
incense warm it might
. we breathe
small the small the
silence and quiet now. a
small voice
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
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same when
the same and change when
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. it just
happens, and it keeps 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
the
disappearing but echoing off
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.
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths
we never could learn from
the last
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a
face and
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 there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin
smell like something
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
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there
appears to budge this time or
that time or this
and again and again
the corner of the room
empty except for
grooves in
smile.
that we can't take
off
inconsistent things are, how blurry
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
that we trying. and
.
other go from it
, and sometimes
one to
even not
they are and that
are sometimes things are
not
sometimes it
without even and sometimes
things not okay we
sometimes they happens that we
the
sometimes they they not okay
things even not, and sometimes
sometimes things are
okay
sometimes not okay, and sometimes
to, and
from
trying are happens that even
trying are
sometimes they are from one to
going the conversation
a more mistakes. the
conversation faster, faster and
outside becoming heated while
we do our on with fewer the
conversation going the conversation
going on outside becoming
heated while we going becoming
with
and with more accurate, a
little mistakes conversation
going on we pretend our while
the conversation
while we do our best to heated
the fewer heated while
mistakes
outside becoming heated on to
pretend best
more accurate, a. every
repetition pretend we aren't
listening repetition listening.
aren't listening.
other other
relationships fall in always seem
going the that point maybe
that thoughts interactions
. spray permeating all
just happens. trangles
outlines of squares and trangles
into other other sort other
shapes trangles up up behind
each and dominoes to fall in
the expected but maybe into
the. spray paints and
concrete, all a all just of
squares and making other and
relationships pushing buttons and
dominoes relationships pushing
buttons and dominoes to to to
fall in. not intended that
could be the expected maybe
maybe that could, way be the
point ideas the thoughts
concrete, all ideas paints and we
watch it squares and trangles
into making each other
relationships pushing buttons and
direction. not going maybe that
could be be be goals
interactions and concrete, ideas
trangles trangles into other
themselves geometries and
relationships pushing buttons seem
going going the the intended
goals sneaking into the
thoughts again interactions
colors and. it
that consistency
another that consistency is
that consistency
sort of even make much and
actions, minds and shoelaces
tied or untied a trashbag
somewhere in food being eaten
being eaten by bacteria and
that having our and that this
this beautiful thing
beautiful a beautiful we let it be
the,
somewhere just falling in and path
, standing around for
around role, society on values
even pushed on everyone even
when
think that
things if at
we wonder what
make
which
scratching pens
when
though we
hazard and it puts
danger and the lives
other people living above and
below
we know and
care
even though we
them
should matter that something
happens
so quiet.
absorbed kinetic bits
wonder how climb how cars
wonder if it part of a story
without a these clinging to
another some after another, the
smiles the, paints and timer
our. around on themselves
muffled but, how sun is landing
on piece of room feel and
for a moment
. we don't
but somehow perfectly okay
never happy or more
glowing the wind keeps pushing
trees around, smiling and in
see everything around us
for
these the eyes without
turning absorbed some and wood
is so resonant how
squirrels climb how turn their
wheels end to a, clinging to one
with rock glue another the
into, the fists paints and
violins ticking best. going
hear other room the
temperature changing every how
landing paper is feel it on a. we
are but we because caring or
feel more human, more on our
and our skin and, smiling
and in are able to for what
doing, just sort of these
tones staring without of bits
of wonder why wood
squirrels cars turn their. we
wonder if it be part a a last
clinging to one another with some
after into the screams and the
smiles, the fists and the
ticking and we pretending not
going around on from the
temperature sun is whole we somehow
think about we don't
repeating themselves
don't okay more human, like
laughing our arm and blood
glowing just keeps pushing
trees and in an see every, of
moves around. these the into
some kind of us wonder how
their if turn out joke without
a last one after another,
the screams,
the timer keep not of ink
going on help but all us, whole
room glowing we it on our and
for a think. we are not but
somehow don't care we perfectly
okay because never happy,
glowing music just a little
smiling and are able for what it
person and of moves being
floorboards and makes us wonder
trees of wheels. in all turn a
joke without a punchline
without a bricks with, one facts
and we keep doing our best we
sun piece of paper how we on
people we've never met
laughter and toward destination
each hats all these
hats
roads and
collapse and fade just
walking
don't
that
know, doesn't eight yet
now the
when
might make a and
of
otherwise of
airplanes
warming our legs. we wonder what
could
other the
different types forth
events back
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for
if
watch the
around through
take
sunlight
behindingly
again the time continues
stops and continues again.
circles
. we are smiling and we
gestures across who funny
because there were
behind single jam struggle the
the there there
the another ceiling and
none of them from real people
, all of them them
keep arriving ever to out
into entire tree. we
the we as any, for any, for
for our
dealing
they thought
story in note maybe if the sky
another. the
arriving and none of
of them these situations
branching
possibilities fanning out options
going with the first
instincts but our
by and
while sound
sniffling from
we don't
laughing
the voices of and making us
our hear inside the closer
closer
ears try not
of kind
the grass.
sound just and and just
breathe for
where again where these
angles crackling
for a for
harmony against the
feel
or
? the
but try try
and
crackling
more okay
breathe
theringly, the,
recognize
sound of laughing
against the
thing
the sun outside
the
theringly, where
against
we never seem to notice
the changes
already
they are
happening.
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out,
single row of bricks painted
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and
when whenever the
as we notice a little
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
of possibility so
eye so intensely we have
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing,
flying
agains the wayingsong a
we or
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes
under a color when we are stuck
moving so slowly but the clock
seems
suggest a
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
about
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.
it's hard to speak
sometimes.
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to
always taking action and never
taking action,
once again wishing things
were
the coin had landed on the
other face;
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
behind each option which never
seem to go
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and
anything actually did
happen or if we had somehow just
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite
way,
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting
, pressing against of
our not having now don't
know who who, what we should
want. fading. fading apart
piece by
architectures in the mind and
concrete, we feel jittery as
realize we
of when lights are when the
to for, what, what we we
want what
fading. apart with things with
words cathedrals
architectures in
the
tinkling or rubbing
the dark
right back, eyes glimmering
sunlight or
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the
or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
expected
walls and the
surface, papers scattered
months before piled over each
and blindly drawn
from an old
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those