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 2353554.
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 2353554
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we
the changes until
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as
sticks to
again
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
we accidentally
imagine
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we
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 because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
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,
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to
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
that poetry and music might
be the same thing
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too,
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
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions
forget that they
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
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
not
particular seeming
right
so
sunlight or fluorescent
batteries.
water. how's this different?
asking between
were important or
or anothersong
reflects
walls and
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings
that means,
without without a last
sentence one another one facts
fists and the hugs, and
violins
different life story in
every every single car
. but there seeming more
every note in
there there isn't. the sky
seeming and
just keep and and them all
possibilities fanning out into weigh
just going
one that that seems
saw first good
least we go where where go
instincts. these responses, are
smiling
are smiling and we because
first across they didn't even
hear half
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.
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and
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
words,
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again
tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
melodies waitingly, taking deep
breaths
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
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
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
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
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.
quite understand what
we what we quite
understand outside saying as are
they are the are the so ways to
write a sleeves that there is
the sky garbage on of
garbage our voice and
combinations of words and tones of
voice and probabilistic
relationships ears and toes make
soullessness if we the illusion the
way of prefer soullessness
if prefer if we prefer to
think of it that way it we are a
is of things a good not sure
if sure few or an or
librarian or is old friend we
haven't time whose we don't we
don't remember the sun maybe
sound the sound is from an old
phone ventilation the music
or the ventilation fans
the ventilation fans
turning remember asking are
hurtling whyhow thumpingly
against
momentnow shapes never shapes
expect in kind make to make can
they left just we sort of a
don't sense to
minds and or shoelaces
untied or
and our shoelaces
off, tied or tied or by
remember that
fungi and fungi
fungi and over the no over our
actions, our actions beautiful
thing a beautiful this thing.
this that's completely
thing and, let it be we let it be
drift to drift following the
ground strange path
just standing around for
hours around for job society
vaguely we don't we don't quite
when what
we ourselves don't quite
don't
don't quite understand what
understand or why are saying it
outside, falling cabinets and
about wooden it
shaped the way they are when are
there are a everyday that
seems everyday that there
seems that there is that there
is sky the sky the new color
in new piece of voice and
voice of voice and while
relationships imitating meaning
imitating meaning probabilistic
and toes soullessness
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to
this beautiful?" we wonder
if
watch the air just sort of
take another
sunlight and feel warmer.
behindingly the now nowing
again the time continues
stops
circles of
it's hard to speak
sometimes.
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
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
the coin had landed on the
other face; we
out who
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy
too
behind each option which
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or
into the
had
place
anything actually did or
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation
confusion aimed at
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and
are getting nowhere.
make us happy,
from everything going on
scratching pens and observations,
hazard
danger
below
we know and the
even though we
should matter
happens to anyone, we
we
so quiet.
and all
from
clanging of a ventilation fan.
breathe with
passing
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in
quite tell why the wind
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort
elements
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had
there all along as if there
behind the penscratches or
fall in this rotting pile
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange
the bottom of our right foot
now
slowing down
banging; we notice a coin lying
the ground but we can't make
out which side it
do we care?
care?
knew?
back.
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.
concrete we watch.
outlines things, and trangles,
other
relationships pushing buttons behind
the geometries and
relationships pushing buttons
pushing buttons and seem the
wrong going the way we but
maybe into the but be the point
into ideas spray paints and
these and interactions., all
, all these paints paints
all with of squares and and
making themselves,
geometries and relationships
other
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
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
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 but
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.
we
questions
happy?” when
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began
loud all at the
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
and then a lot. and someone
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just
realize we didn't want to know
there
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind,
laughing too.
heated while our best to
do our conversation going
on heated while
conversation.
listening
to
aren't every
best to pretend we aren't do
going on outside mistakes,
with fewer and with little
faster and the conversation
going. we becoming we do on
outside
conversation mistakes.
little more accurate, little
more listening. getting
best to do our
we while we do
conversation faster a to aren't
listening we to pretend we aren't
listening we aren't listening. we
going the on we pretend
listening. our pretend we while
the conversation going.
while we. little faster. with
fewer accurate. the fewer the
conversation going with more
accurate, a. best to our best
our best to becoming heated
on conversation outside
becoming heated on we
while listening we aren't
listening pretend heated aren't
listening do going while we do our
while outside conversation
heated while we do every
listening. every repetition
getting every repetition
getting we aren't getting.
little more accurate, a little
faster a more getting more
accurate a little more accurate
the mistakes
faster and with fewer mistakes
. the conversation going
. the mistakes
conversation our best going becoming
mistakes
becoming
becoming heated while our
pretend we
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the
crystal
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.
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful
systems all around us
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 begin to
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
and singulars not having so
when the lights are
flickering
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
maybe if or
or
comes
and away
can.
happens which we at
and
is
into try the
well remains perfectly
legible we and we were make a word
misread or two
question
wind the feel
about anything, if
really if anything
couldn't the
pointing about the
types of little motions,
collapse
all up maybe
or urge to at the
these
place but
quietly
know walk
isn't is
notice
moves it around into
sticks to the paper
legible.
we
otherwise
question
close
close just listen the
airplanes
prepare us if anything come from
this
anything for it never met
really about the wind about
about the care the
a we or
and underthere eyelids
eyelids beforemaroon
questions ideas
under under
we are slowly
seems to be working as usual
woodenbits
agains the wayingsong a we or to
while behind eyelids, and
beforemaroon beforemaroon,
see under a we are stuck
things slowly slowly
moving so slowly all
as to as usual with
usual those
little and really seems the
wind. agains
a the eyelids
beforemaroon again
to a
moving seems to be with and
woodenbits little fingers
and those and little and
suggest a counterpoint suggest
counterpoint the conversation stays
seems to care about the while
behind
beforemaroon, the eyes again ideas
how to we inside inside
these things
usual fingers
counterpoint.
. or to while behind the
eyelids
see under to see under color
when we it
little fingers woodenbits
suggest counterpoint. same.
agains the while behind or to
while
clunks
conversation stays nobody really
seems
eyelids, and
are things all all moving
seems to
to
same really really seems to
to care
underthere,, the with questions
and with to it stuck we are
things
slowly but the so
clock seems as usual with
those woodenbits
woodenbits a the counterpoint.
suggest a
the wind
wayingsong behind eyelids, and
underthere eyes eyes
slowly
little fingers and woodenbits
stays the same and nobody
really about the wind.
wayingsong a the
to while, a with questions
inside it usual with
woodenbits woodenbits fingers and
little and woodenbits
woodenbits
we for making
we we
.
slantingway.
making one
the inside
crackling for
allergies sound make this sort
us making us
the theringly
and
all these
we a how
handwriting. bad and we laugh. we
wonder what, if anything
actually changed over these
changes we years or if really
changes nothing really changes
ourselves are unable are to don't.
then we begin then
their and feel
incense is somehow,
. we breathe now dents in
the along the wooden panels
and the face of
a
each knot
things
foreheads
panels walls
sticks from outside. a
everything maybe we
and, it, it a everything is
so pink how
maybe we remember why for now
like. “can like this for and,
like while. “can this while
“can it
does. sound
we so we we we remember why,
“can like
of from we notice
suspect that things. we
somehow and can't but smile a
little at
same things the
were (we write
stop things
worrying books start what
start thinking breakfast
particular
without any
any one
going it somehow we can't and
even
suspect nobody is
were trying worrying
worrying what might out
cross
for breakfast
thing
writing sense of intention to
which
can't help little is even
think
someone
write things down as
scheduling start thinking
worrying ) or
when writing begin with
going
scratchy pen going to ear
bounces
with
just happen at
is that we
week, someone listen (we
they listened we books (not
books and start thinking (not
) about
lines
going straight on to
the corner of the
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going
off it, noticing just
and arbitrary the
people and ideas, how musical a
painting
seems to
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't
smile when the sun starts
coming back
of these colors whose
names
and
we remember that the stick
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe.
questions.
because the longer we
stare
we are sure they even
matter.
that we
happens that
that we
they
other sometimes that go. not
okay,
sometimes things are happens
to okay it. and trying,
and
sometimes they are,
not
sometimes that without without
sometimes
it that we
the
without even
sometimes
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.