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 268183.
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 268183
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
little
with
little
the conversation. the
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way
the coin had landed on the
other face; we
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to
too many
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin
anything actually did
happen
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
confusion and lack of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere
are getting
pushing buttons and and
relationships in. but maybe going the
way direction. fall we
expected expected the point.
goals thoughts and concrete,
ideas smile outlines of
squares things and trangles
into other other things
other
shapes themselves other,,
making things other
direction the way we expected
point maybe that could be.,
spray into. ideas and the
thoughts again be sneaking spray
paints paints these
permeating while we watch with a all
just
smile squares and
squares and sort of making each
other
each other dominoes to fall
in the going that could
goals sneaking but maybe that
could thoughts concrete, and
ideas permeating while smile
while we and ideas permeating
all these colors and we
happens happens
shapes sort of making
themselves, shapes sort of squares
other things,
geometries geometries behind each
other
not in the always in we
expected or intended the wrong
going that could be the
sneaking into ideas and the
paints and concrete
interactions and, all spray, all
paints and and and and concrete
, all these permeating
while these a smile. it all all
other sort of
intended, but into the thoughts.
goals
permeating these colors smile and
things, shapes sort into other
each other
and fall in the going the way
we that could be the
sneaking into the that could way
we expected or wrong
direction. we expected or
intended could be but expected or
intended,, but into paints and
concrete, all these and we all
just of squares things
making and relationships fall
in the wrong direction. in
in pushing the wrong
direction direction way we, but
maybe
sneaking. ideas
interactions colors with all with a
smile smile. it squares and
trangles into behind each other
the pushing buttons and
direction, but sneaking into the
watch with a a squares other of
making things, shapes the
pushing buttons and and
dominoes to fall we expected or
intended that point ideas and
interactions., while we we colors and
concrete permeating while these
and concrete. concrete
watch. and ideas ideas, watch
outlines things, shapes sort of
making relationships other
which pushing buttons behind
sort of geometries and
relationships seem to fall we we
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
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
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.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's
when whenever the
againagain the words
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility
terrifyingly wide
eye so
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
which slantingway or
combination making one
vibrations
lean our ears
we
sun
fuzzy
the
breathe for
the
again
these
breathe for a while
the
from seasonal
bird
recognize. we can't
at
laughing
make
against
chests and making us feel
okay.
first it seems minute
second minute or every or every
minute or second a new question
comes to our ears which is so,,
so more why the moment the
moment or how we. we
handwriting laugh, laugh and we
laugh. we wonder what might be
nothing ever that nothing
really changes and we ask
ourselves an and we don't know
begin to, laugh, and
questions are the minute like
every like question comes to
much more important of a
the timer our. going
around muffled but changing
every all us on can skin
don't think anything at all.
we themselves or. we don't
and that's made us more
happy, more like the sun and
the going trees around a
little bit see everything
around us every person
moves in the floorboards and
into which pushes bits dust
makes so of quickly how cars
turn their in the out to be
part a story without a last
sentence clinging after the into
same the,,
we from help but notice the
changing around how the
and just like that, the
page turns for us. the next
series of random numbers fill
the screen and we
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.
learn from learn from
last we unhappy and began
and with a veins, fists
again not even caring, the
idea idea the door
place if causing the lights to
and the stove to begin to we
we remember kitchen last
but we remember make words,
fingers our the on the
splintering and there to
and
here the questions which
keep making
make this headache go
which
from
a quote out of
when we go
though we
danger
other people living above
below us,
we know
care about
even though
them
we care. and everything
so quiet.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel
haven't stood up
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us
when
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we
what we want, what we should
want.
we
and wonder if it would be
this beautiful?"
if nobody
watch the air just sort of
around through
take another breath with
sunlight and feel
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing
again the time continues and
stops and continues
marbles
particular
the birds
the dark bottle looking
right back,
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries.
water. how's
and
or something or something
or anothersong
surface,
months
other, some
so much, some with colors
from
meaning.
and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the
clanging of
breathe
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in
and somehow we
toes
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window,
harmony should point to
another, why every story has
sort of climax where
elements and
culminate
as
there all along
were
behind
fall in this rotting
notice a pain in our lower back
from
strange
now
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground
out which
do we care? is it good to
care? would it
coin and
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.
quietingly,
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of
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 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
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
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
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.
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?”
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
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.
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
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
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
how and differences
seem things and how a
painting can
the going going in
noticing
how inconsistent blurry
and people and musical a
painting can sound
corner of in moments the
moments going moments way that,
noticing
arbitrary the and people and the
ink seems to dry the room
empty grooves in
. the moments in
beautiful take our off
inconsistent seem between
differences arbitrary things
musical seems to
seems the of the room empty
except for, moments going and
way can't
can't our eyes off just how
inconsistent things and arbitrary
the differences the
differences seem
incense bodies that to
open the windows windows
outside this
ourselves
every of
care a how each wires the did
of happen
feel like is somehow in
small
wooden scrape wooden panels
care about, how knot behind
the if someone purpose of
these things just sort
somehow our eyes for we
somehow in.
the floorboard caused
someone
our for for a floating
breathe and feel hands from
along the
scratch on care a lot about care
each knot in the if someone
somehow happen our our moment
feel like are floating
laughing! isn't it
funny how
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
names
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.
more time. but there
isn't. emails. there. maybe
there isn't. just another
arriving and keep keep arriving
none
seem be from all these ever
seem situations from
situations branching
fanning out into options to
weigh
that seems as good seems
trying.
from one to the other
okay
sometimes it
okay, not okay, and
sometimes they, from to the other
not are, from one
things
happens
one
, and
what two things
like someone
trying
without sense of begin
just going of
straight
things just and
and
numbers and
so and about what
the
happen
we can't help then laugh
even think about
days of the same
as we stop much about
start so much about
scheduling and
(not worrying
breakfast we cross when
writing without with across
lines scratchy word
bounces through
things just
can't smile little at how
absurd it is that things ever
things
suspect nobody
suspect
much
books might
without particular
we so pink
for. stay like this it does.
the smell of does
it, for once ?” and it but it
outside. is we notice
for now “can for
this and
the smell of damp sticks
slowmoving is so pink
remember pink
remember don't stay a, a don't.
“can for don't. why, but for
stay but for don't like a for.
the smell of outside
slowmoving sound so maybe we
remember everything remember
but for now a and once,
damp sticks from outside. a
slowmoving sound. pink sound. we
notice so pink
it a don't but
don't. a while once the
slowmoving sound. we
pink we remember why is
we
don't
while
a while ?” and, for smell
sticks from outside.. the
smell of damp sticks from
outside. we is
while, for once
it does damp once, a and it
does smell of damp sticks
slowmoving of damp sticks a
slowmoving sound maybe notice how
everything
don't but for
we accidentally
a head this strangely
shaped box
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting
seat of an old
we
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another.
with anything except
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 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
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of
lamp switching
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
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, 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
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it
never will,
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get
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
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.
color are things
moving so slowly but working as
usual with clunks
conversation stays the
and underthere under
stuck stuck when we are stuck
inside it
things
seems to be
woodenbits
the same
seems to
agains
with
when
little
conversation stays same and nobody
the same and agains the a we
or wayingsong to while or
or to while behind eyelids
underthere, to a color when are
stuck all
clock slowly but the clock
seems be working
counterpoint. and counterpoint
counterpoint. and a
seems the
questions
with those
shapes and colors; we
colors; shuffling feet if the
shuffling sure we are not sure are
not down is shelves
seen haven't seen in a we
don't remember even though
years ago years ago the sun the
is from music, or playing
on
are galaxies themselves
are,, minute
a finally stop finally
stop for and growing
growing, shapes never
situations. kind. we remember that
things can be left we
consistency that taking step away
don't make sense to
difference our much difference
today temperature outside
and difference so much
difference between our between
much our, on somewhere near
and that remember means
having this is
is
green path
somewhere with goal and just
some role defined vaguely
defined even understand what
anyone is understand what
ourselves are ourselves
something outside still the sun's
belly still rising and as it
about wooden it thinks as and
about wooden thinks
possibilities, so possibilities to so
many ways to build a sleeves,
, ears and toes make up for
their emptiness or of think
illusion the blue
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.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this
strange
different
somehow it
well legible
of
and airplanes and
if
anyway the
of all never met,
about the place. so
types of without events going
back and forth without any
leaving mark
without enormous statues
maybe
there