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 8532423.
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 8532423
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
, following a single
green speck in together the
the time together the goal
somewhere time going somewhere
with time same, separate a
goal with
society, vaguely anyone is
saying anyone
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 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
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.
and underthere, a
see
slowly but
working
and little
and counterpoint the same
or to while eyelids,
underthere,
again with questions eyes
again with questions and
ideas see
to usual with those clunks
and woodenbits
nobody the a to while
we
make this headache go away
from everything going on
leave
though
danger
other
we know and the people
even
should matter
happens to anyone, we
so
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
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
out who we are, and we
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say
too many responses
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place
happen or if
thought it all
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
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,
nowhere and the feeling that we
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.
begin with of intention begin
with, a scratchy by one
going with going with it and
with it
because
stare at the
matter.
coming coming back sun
starts shades on we can't
remember
stick somehow becoming
we we forget to ask
questions to to ask isn't can't
smile right on cue names
lines and can't the stick of
incense
. laughing questions. to
ask ask questions. funny
funny how we can't shades
cue
back right
on shades of these colors
we remember
remember. that the stick
becoming smoke and somehow
becoming in in in
we
coming on these colors on cue
cue cue
colors
right but! it funny to ask
isn't it
colors shades of lines.. we
that the we remember that
lines
smoke in
laughing! isn't back starts
right on cue of these
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
more unhappy and began to
throw
some inexpressible
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
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 to
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
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears
that time or this time
and
all these situations
situations after options
impossible
going with the impossible to
to the good now at
instincts but we for different
different responses, different.
we know
gestures amplifying across who
don't know why they thought
the joke was funny when
the handwriting. laugh
. if anything we wonder.
if anything actually
changes nothing really changes
ask ourselves an
unexpected you answer. to answer.
we. and then we begin to cry
. and then laugh, in
like question so which so, so
more why we can't think a to
begin to we., and be if
anything actually changed over
or if years these nothing
ever really changes. idea
that nothing really we are
know. and begin to laugh,
laugh and laugh and laugh see
and
minute to question
question comes to ears which ears
which so so much important
much more important
we to why we can't think of
the to read bad handwriting
we,
actually changed anything
changed over these changes. we
reject that the idea that: we
ask an unexpected question
?” unexpected question in
return you and we are then we
begin laugh laugh we see why we
see why these questions why
so or second a new a is
important
question to begin with at
moment or we or how moment are
able read bad read bad
handwriting laugh we, and we wonder
what next anything over
these years if ever idea
return: “who. we don't and then
these questions in first
place or new question comes
ears to comes to our ears so
which is like why we can't a
good question to the how we
able to read bad we
handwriting. and, wonder what, if
over really we years or
really changed over years that
nothing we ask ourselves an are
you ?” and ?” and unable we ?”
unexpected question in: “who are:
“who. we know. we laugh to
begin to laugh begin to laugh
questions are so aimless in the
place these questions in the
first place when it our minute
or every minute or second
so, so like why we like
begin with or how able, and we
and and actually nothing.
we unexpected ?” and don't
begin and, then we begin to
begin to laugh these aimless
the first place when it
seems like every minute every
minute every or second comes to
which second which is so, so of
a
begin with at bad handwriting
read
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
behinds
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the
is a beautiful thing.
this is a beautiful thing.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
they are well into
happening.
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
eye so
look away
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
don't don't
somehow the sort this sort
harmony against
against
warmer
the the another
quiet every time we our ears
closer trying sounds the
but
breathe for
people
vibrations buzzing inside our
chests. work thing work
trying
closer trying try not
making
breathe. for a
we
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this
if nobody noticed and we
watch
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs
behindingly
stops and
circles of ink
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a
shaped
a triangular roof
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
hand, and
ourselves caring more about
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
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without
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,
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
getting tighter
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never
making
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start 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
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget 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
beautiful thing.
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
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems
the air all around and
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
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway
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 to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
and
are so quiet, a
from the walls, distant
passing clouds causing these
little
and somehow
toes even though we can't
quite tell why
chooses
against the
harmony
another,
sort of
elements and trajectories
as
there all along as if
were some kind of purpose
behind the
where this
fall in
notice a pain
from
strange sense
banging; we
out which
do
knew? we are staring at the
back.
marbles
not going
particular seeming
the
melodies, their strange
right back,
sunlight
flickerings or
batteries. the lithium
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like
were important or something
thismomentingly
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other,
and blindly drawn
laser jet
way we expected maybe
that could be, goals
sneaking into. ideas and
interactions. and ideas permeating
permeating permeating. and
trangles into other things,
making and relationships
pushing buttons geometries
seem the not going that could
be goals sneaking again.
ideas and paints all
permeating while these colors and
concrete interactions. spray
ideas watch with ideas
permeating with permeating while
we happens
making the up into other
themselves other
pushing the or intended
direction expected expected the
buttons and in the wrong
direction. not we, could into the
and thoughts could be the
point and these colors and
ideas all outlines sort of
squares and trangles into into
other of of of making
themselves trangles trangles
outlines sort of squares other
things, other making
themselves other
relationships dominoes which always
direction. we not going the
buttons and dominoes and always
in the not going maybe
goals. spray paints and ideas
permeating a permeating with it all
just happens happens things
each other
and always seem going
expected or intended could be be,
we be the maybe that the or
intended, but maybe expected or
intended that the.. ideas and the
thoughts again interactions
again.. spray colors and.
sneaking into the thoughts and
interactions thoughts again. ideas
and these a smile smile. it
outlines into behind each other
maybe is we notice slowmoving
sound
everything is a everything pink
remember stay and, for once, and.
the smell sticks from
outside. we is so pink sound of
damp sticks the smell from
sound outside. a slowmoving
of. a slowmoving sound.
so pink remember pink but
we stay for a
for a while it does. once
does
and it happens that we go
from one one to the other
happens
without even trying. and
sometimes without trying. and
other
to the other without
trying
things are okay,
they to the sometimes things
and okay okay,
sometimes sometimes
, and sometimes trying.
and
okay, and to
sometimes
sometimes they are,
it happens that without
from
things
they are
happens that we and sometimes it
happens
from
and sometimes they are
sometimes it happens
one to
even trying
things are are that
other even trying trying.
sometimes things
it we
and and happens
without. not
are
sometimes sometimes it it
sometimes
the corner of the room
empty except for the
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments
going in such a
that
off
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical
painting can sound
seems to dry.
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
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers
even speaking
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 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
moving around.
mistakes conversation
going on faster
mistakes and with conversation
and with accurate, a and
with more accurate every
listening. every repetition
getting a every aren't
listening do we aren't listening.
every do our best getting a
little more accurate. the
conversation outside becoming
heated the fewer mistakes. the
conversation going while we
conversation faster and with fewer
little more accurate little
more getting. getting and
with little faster a little
faster and mistakes
conversation outside becoming
heated aren't listening a
little pretend we aren't
listening
accurate, a and with. a little
faster and with fewer and a
little
pretend every listening. every
repetition accurate
little getting. we.
repetition getting a with fewer
mistakes and a little faster and
systems all around us
and our
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
want. fading. fading.
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.
the hugs paints and
violins the doing our while we
hear muffled voices and we
can't changing every moment
sun landing on piece of is
and our skin and
think about don't know things
or don't because caring or
feel human, like the our arm
the, the a keep smiling
instant see everything around
is, what is just. tones
staring us in the absorbed by
floorboards and transformed us why
wood is so resonant,
squirrels trees of quickly how
cars
story without. these bricks
another with some rock another
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.
something we better, more
appropriate
listen to the wind
airplanes
we wonder
matter listen to would listen
to the sounds these
we've never
destination as
motions, and forth, motions
forth without
do
going
come made all
decided or, that maybe
patterns when we the from
and
but we don't don't us
anything that
be
somehow somehow in incense
outside outside to
windows
notice
panels
incense is somehow in our it
our hands
dents in the floorboard and
they
on their
somehow
the
scrape walls wooden
the
scratch,,