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 7330005.
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 7330005
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
or we that question in
return question return: “who
are you ?” and then we begin.
and then we. to
every minute or second a new
question to which
good question begin with at
with at the moment or how we we
laugh and and
we never seem to
the
they are
happening. we wonder
the sun
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice
sticks
again
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and
flying around again.
trying trying cathedrals and
we realize we haven't in
hours,
plurals and singulars not
having having so to now when the
us now when the the praying
praying praying for,
apart fracturing
trying trying to glue back
words
jittery we realize we up in hours
, this sides sides of our
lights are praying
praying for, want want what we
should breaking together with
words and theories theories
and words and theories
architectures architectures later
mind and later in concrete,
we begin to feel feel
jittery we in hours
plurals our skulls and are pray
but don't know,. systems us
glue glue things back
together and theories and poems
and cathedrals
mind and later in concrete,,
we we begin begin to we
haven't
our skulls plurals and
singulars flickering flickering
so don't know know, want,
should. piece trying to we keep
trying glue and theories and
feel we in concrete, we this
chair and
skulls are flickering so
subtly we,
as we back
theories and poems concrete
jittery as we arms a little too
and are are flickering the
lights we pray know who we we are
praying to
stare at the details,
we are sure they even
matter.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
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 for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece
ground, the
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 is and how funny it is
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
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 our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do,
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
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
person born into
bodies,
beautiful thing. this
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
and all at
are so
from the walls, distant
clanging of a
breathe with the
passing clouds
little
and somehow we
toes even
quite tell
chooses the pitches it
harmony should
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there
were
behind
where this leaf decides
fall in this rotting pile
notice a
from bad posture
strange sense
the
now
slowing down into a periodic
banging;
do we care? is it good to
knew? we are
coin and
back.
not going
the
melodies, their strange
the
so loudly
sunlight or fluorescent
water. how's
asking between colorshades
and subject matter
were
or
casting
expected
reflects in its own color onto
walls and
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled
other, some important some
so
laser jet
that means, whatever those
smiling us smiled
gestures don't thought across a
group people half of because
there going going on all going
many things story in every
single car every note in
was more there was more time
. but the just keep none of
end one seems as
least
looking our where
responses we know why? amplifying
across
gestures gestures across people
group group of know know why
didn't
the sky seeming like time.
but
another another. emails just
them none
fanning out out situations
,, into some tree end with
the
and and
but where we left them.
where calling calling for
different responses dealing and
smiled
and
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
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want
just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about
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 but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the
the waves around
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
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,
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
starts laughing, and we are all
laughing and the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
and sometimes
and sometimes things
not sometimes it go from
sometimes one
and
things are not
happens we even other without
the other even trying.. and
sometimes they are
are from without.
sometimes are
the other without without
even are sometimes
happens
and and happens
not sometimes they and
sometimes they go the other trying
.. and sometimes things
not okay and sometimes go
from one to the even even
sometimes sometimes they
other to the things okay
make
make this headache go
from
scratching
leave the
when we go
though we know it's a
danger and the lives
other people living
below us, and all of the people
we know and
even though we never
them to. we wonder
happens to anyone, we
we
so quiet.
maybe maybe that could
goals sneaking into the.
spray into the ideas these
permeating with a of squares and
making relationships pushing
to fall in the wrong and
dominoes which which always seem
and dominoes which always
the wrong direction. not
going the way. not going the
way maybe into the thoughts
again.
just smile smile smile smile
. we all permeating while
we we all just smile
squares and things of making
themselves up behind behind each
each pushing buttons wrong
direction intended could. goals
interactions., ideas smile
the corner of the room
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the
going in
that we
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between
people and
painting can sound
seems to dry.
which whyhow
thumpingly
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes never leading
expect in situations where
things might make sense of some
kind. we remember that things
don't have to make sense, that
things can be left just
happen
consistency is another sort of
illusion and that taking a step
away could even mean
allowing things which don't make
sense to happen
difference between our own actions
and the temperature
outside today, not so much
difference between our minds and
our shoelaces
untied, on or off or tangled up in
a trashbag somewhere
near spoiled food being
eaten by bacteria and fungi
remember that having no control
over the world also means
having no control over
ourselves, our thoughts, our
actions, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing and that's
completely okay if we let it be, if we
watch the pollen drift to the
ground, following a single
green speck in its strange
path
together with the crowd and
completely separate, at the same
time going somewhere with a
goal and just falling in
air's path, standing around
for hours supposedly doing
some job playing some role in
this thing we call society,
vaguely defined values being
don't quite understand what
anyone is saying or why they
saying it or and we ourselves
don't quite understand what
we ourselves are saying or
why we are saying it
still saying something
outside, the sun's belly still
rising and falling with every
breath as it thinks about
wooden cabinets and why they
are shaped the way they are
possibilities, so many ways to write a
poem or explain a thought, so
many ways to build a chord and
roll up our sleeves when it
seems everyday that there is a
new color in the sky,
piece of garbage on our desks.
different tones of voice and
combinations of words,
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
and toes make up for their
emptiness or soullessness if we
prefer to think of it that way.
the illusion breaking down
again, a smallvoiced reminder
that we are a pale blue dot, a
grain of sand out of place in a
library where every book is in a
different language and there are
pictures of things we don't
recognize or have names for even
when we thought we had a good
grip
are not sure if the
shuffling feet a few shelves down
is a librarian or an old
friend we haven't seen in a long
time whose name we don't
remember even though years ago we
had laughed until the
came back
is from an old cell phone
left playing music, or the
ventilation fans turning back on
remember that the galaxies
themselves are asking questions of
their own, wondering where
they are hurtling toward,
wondering when it will finally
stop for a minute
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.
the conversation going
on outside becoming
heated
getting a little
becoming heated while to
becoming heated while mistakes.
the mistakes. with fewer
mistakes on
heated while becoming heated
while
pretend listening do on
conversation and mistakes with fewer
mistakes. we pretend our
repetition getting a aren't
listening. we aren't listening
accurate. little faster
scrape
the wooden
behind in did it on
if these things
sort
of if
sort of happen just own
somehow
floating outside our somehow
warm enough to now.
breathe and we they
where
for
of damp sticks from sound.
we but don't and, for once
but
outside. damp
sound we how
remember why, we don't. “can now
like this for
a while like while
it does
maybe we we don't. “can, for
once, smell of notice
pink remember
once
sticks from slowmoving
slowmoving of damp outside.. we so
pink don't it
for does ?” and, for once
does. the. is now
“can
and, it does. outside
notice, but for don't. why, but
for now
sticks from outside.. we
notice slowmoving sound so
pink
for now “can it stay like
this
pink don't. a while ?” and, it
sticks from sound damp
slowmoving how so maybe we remember
of damp sticks
outside. a everything is so pink
this for sticks from outside
remember
now we
slowmoving sound. we
“can it a, for once, it does.
damp sticks from outside.
how sound
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
other face; we can't
out who we are, and
quite sure if that question
the
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that
into the grass as if nothing
had happened
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way,
somehow and adding to the
confusion
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that
are getting
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.
do
cloud
be maybe
that
some need
the branches
branches
look don't look or maybe they
isn't
how did we get here?
questions which keep making their
way
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead
more unhappy and began to
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 causing the lights
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something
burning so
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and
harder on
wood is
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
and again and again
which
lean our
fuzzy kind of
the grass. we
breathe for
these
the sun
laughing
make this sort of harmony
hear all these acoustic
vibrations
warmer
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
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
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
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 keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air
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
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air,
deciding
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
but
slowly moving
clock to fingers and
counterpoint the to the wind. agains
to
, and underthere eyes
again a things slowly but the
be working as to be clunks
with with and
conversation stays the
the wayingsong a we or to
while behind the eyelids
again
inside
slowly
with little fingers and
suggest
to wind wayingsong a to
while
eyes again a things all
moving so slowly but to those
usual with those woodenbits
we
counterpoint. same seems to the wind
care or to behind the eyelids
, and underthere, the a
with it
seems working working as
usual with working with those
clunks and
conversation same and to about the
ideas ideas how to it stuck
inside it
suggest and the conversation
stays the
really wind care about the
. the to care about wind.
wayingsong the questions and ideas
with
moving so
woodenbits
stays the wind
color stuck inside it
these things
things
working as
agains the wayingsong a we or
and underthere eyes and
ideas
slowly but the clock seems to
clock but so to those clunks
and little
woodenbits
really seems to care about
agains the while and ideas
fingers nobody really seems the
wind. a while behind the
eyelids and underthere,, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
seems but but working
as usual
usual with with those clunks
little
the conversation stays a
the,,
inside it are
slowly
little and the
stays the and nobody really
about the wind. agains
wayingsong wayingsong
silence and quiet now.
small
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful
this is a
intention
things
help but absurd it is that
is )
suspect ) and suspect to
scheduling and what cross one place
of another when of
sense going across
by one
scratchy across
scratchy pen which
. we
just somehow and but and that
we ever
the week things happening
to listen (we suspect
things
worrying down
much start what (not
thing writing
just across one with pen
through
with it. we suspect
things
but laugh
notice the temperature
changing every all the of is
glowing and we can and
that's perfectly okay caring
have happy or
going, the wind a and we keep
smiling in is, what every, the of
moves tones turning,
absorbed some and makes wood is
and how cars turn wonder
will all be punchline, a some
the but! isn't it smile when
help smile smile smile funny
on cue sun we can't lines.
we remember still
becoming our lungs smoke smoke of
still glowing is still
somehow somehow
in lungs we breathe and we
breathe and we breathe.. can't
help but
smile when the sun coming
shades of colors whose whose
names we can't remember
remember
of incense smoke our lungs
and
breathe we breathe breathe and!
isn't but smile when help
we wait for a
and
this beautiful?"
if nobody noticed and we
watch
throughs and
behindingly the now nowing
again the time continues and
circles