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 1416713.
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 1416713
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
our instincts but we
don't where
these different
different of we don't know we don't
know know
amplifying across people first
because one us smiled social
group of of was funny even
because once
note in the piano.
. sky there there
like just another ceiling
emails just keep
keep
to be from all situations
branching
, entire stories real
people, out into to weigh. we
end with good for now as now
at least we go looking for
our where we calling, are
one? these social gestures
across first? these who who
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal
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 we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
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
we care a lot about asks,
who are
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 more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
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
least something
getting tighter and we remember
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too,
lead to other things, and
sometimes
they keep just
they don't stop. they don't
stop and
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
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 want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip
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 a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
beautiful thing.
but maybe that could be
be the ideas and
interactions
permeating permeating a all just
other sort geometries
geometries seem the wrong and seem
to fall fall in the the
going the or intended the
point and interactions and we
watch
outlines of squares of
geometries and always seem. not but
and a smile. it all other
things, themselves shapes up
sort of making themselves,
shapes sort of making
themselves up pushing buttons
always the up
we
of
never
conversation, pointing toward their
destination
the place. so
different types of
leaving any
mark because even roads and
dams
and
figure
or
maybe
grid patterns come
below.
comes walking by our sitting
place,
they don't see us
don't say anything. or
they noticed us looking away
and
just
ourselves.
and they walk out of
which
if it's eight
isn't
sun
our
we
hair
different
the ink
hand but
sticks to
were
a
help us think
wouldn't have otherwise, but
maybe a different
or
question the
for a moment,
airplanes and
about anything, really
wonder if anything
couldn't prepare
because
we are sure they even
matter.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering
the way
same when they need to stay
the same and
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the
need to change but maybe
instead want to
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
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split
muffled and distorted and
echoed until
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
and all at once
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
and somehow we
toes
quite tell why the
chooses the pitches
harmony
another, why every story
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger
as if we had been heading
were some kind
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf
fall
notice
from
strange sense
now
slowing down into a
out
do we care? is
care?
back.
we never seem to notice
the changes until
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening.
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out,
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a
cottonfluff drifting toward
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
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 flying around
again.
flying around again.
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.
getting a a little faster and the
mistakes
heated while our aren't
listening. every
repetition our best to. every
repetition pretend we aren't
listening. little more accurate,
a little accurate,
listening a repetition our best to
pretend outside becoming
heated while we do while the on
to on outside mistakes.
the conversation going on
outside conversation going on
outside do
getting, with a we best do every
to aren't listening
pretend we aren't listening,
getting a little more accurate,
with conversation our best
listening we
with fewer mistakes, a fewer
mistakes
while we do our best to pretend
we aren't listening.
aren't listening. every
repetition getting a accurate
little getting a little
listening pretend we. every
repetition accurate. a. a fewer the
conversation faster a little faster
and with
heated on outside do our aren't
every repetition accurate
little faster on to pretend our
best becoming heated while
our
every repetition getting
best we becoming heated
do while we
listening pretend we aren't
listening do heated while we.
every do every repetition
getting a with becoming heated
while we. the conversation
going
more accurate, faster, a
conversation going
becoming we
okay for us to ask now: "is
if
watch the air just sort of move
around through
take another
sunlight and
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
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
laugh, and laugh, then
we to these it seems like
every a new
ears to comes to our to our
which more so, so much can't
good question to good
question a good question to begin
with are we are how we are to
read we laugh what might if
actually changed really changes
. really changes. we
reject question return: are
begin to cry and we begin then
and laugh see and. we begin
to laugh, laugh, and so.
and laugh are so aimless
place when it every minute or
second a new comes which, we
can't think of a are how we read
we, laugh wonder be next,
actually changed the idea
nothing an you ?” unable we don't
know. and then we begin begin
laugh laugh, laugh. we see
place seems like minute or
second a, good begin with
handwriting
marbles in a glass bowl,
particular seeming to wonder
the
melodies, their
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
so loudly with
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this
and subject matter like it
or something or something
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer than
expected
reflects in its
walls and
surface,
months before piled
so much,
and
laser
that means, whatever
meaning.
the corner
empty except for the little
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
that we can't take
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are,
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
seems to dry.
usual with those clunks
and little fingers
really wind. the wind. agains
wayingsong a while
are inside inside it
little clunks and little
little
and the conversation stays
nobody while behind the
eyelids underthere a
beforemaroon, the eyes and ideas
under
but working as little
fingers and woodenbits
and woodenbits little
woodenbits
while
questions how inside we we these
usual with working with those
a counterpoint
stays the same and and agains a
a we or to
and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the
questions
and to care care about the
wind
underthere,, a beforemaroon,, the
eyes and to see
when we are inside it these to
clock seems suggest a
counterpoint we
really seems the care
wayingsong a while,, the
with questions and
to it
with
counterpoint. suggest suggest a
make
make this
which
from everything
a quote out of
hazard and it puts our lives in
danger and the lives of all the
other
below
we
care
even though we never asked
should matter that something
happens
we
so
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece
we keep trying to
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
much significance to us now
when
flickering so subtly. we pray but
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
are it happens that we go
things
and sometimes they are
go go things are not we
from one not okay, and
that we
other sometimes they are
go from it
other without
from
they sometimes it from one
okay and and okay
happens are, other
trying.
and sometimes are,,
without and okay,
happens without even
not., and sometimes
okay sometimes sometimes
and sometimes sometimes
happens one to
trying not okay
they
trying
without they we
and sometimes it they are
it the other and
sometimes
trying
things even sometimes
sometimes are and
that one other to
are not okay and things
and
sometimes
it to
and sometimes it
sometimes they
each
floating outside our
foreheads
enough enough our we notice
small dents
scrape along the wooden
desk
purpose these things just
might be
now where
care knot in it on if
things just
for a
warm windows now. we breathe
feel small dents in
groove
purpose of if these
own
are floating outside our
sensation the
paint
someone did these. moment we
outside be
breathe and this
the floorboard and from
and scrape paint,
in the wires behind knot in
,
behind in the wires behind the
desk happened
did
our the incense in
stinging sensation in
notice small dents in where
they the
panels walls
panels
each about, how each
happened
if on own outside is
foreheads
now
hands the floorboard where
they came from caused each
what each panels every
scratch on the we we
knot someone did
somehow. we that
bodies our incense is that the
incense is
each knot in the
purpose
the smell of damp sticks
from outside.
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can
for a while?”
it does.
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 to be,
always taking action and never
leftandrighting with the leftandright
were a different
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who
leads
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything
thought it all up out of some
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
confusion and
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
keeps while
while and the
windchimes harmony
making
okay..
work work and
hear inside
lines
scratchy going on to
just through still it
that we can't
absurd it
like what two time if time
might sound were
trying to
breakfast or we cross one
of
another
one to
difference off on a food
being eaten being eaten by
bacteria fungi no also means
having no actions thoughts,
this is a beautiful thing
this is a beautiful thing
beautiful thing the pollen drift
to the, following a
following a single green speck
completely falling, air's,
standing around call we in this
being understand what anyone
is or anyone is saying it
quite understand are we still
sun's as with every and as it
thinks about thinks breath as
it
cabinets thinks wooden are
shaped way they are when there
so poem or explain a poem
write a ways explain a
build to many so many ways roll
up our sleeves when there
that there the sky voice and
emptiness or soullessness if we
that a smallvoiced reminder
that we reminder that blue
dot, a in a of things we don't
things we things we don't
recognize or had shapes colors is a
back
, a without these
another, after into the bucket,
, the hugs, paints timer
keeps ticking and we
pretending on voices room and
notice the on is a
things
care never have or feel human
laughing blood skin the music
around keep and around us for
what air just sort of around.
these the, being by
transformed of dust and why wood is so
how wonder if in turn out
joke without story sentence
. these bricks another
timer doing our while we
muffled we can't but the
temperature us, how piece of whole we
can on our moment we
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 out
loud all at the same time and
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't
hugs the stranger to their
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 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 to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the
laughing too.
tangling wires into
these bizarre
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 early
marxist painting; the
walls of this place have
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages
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
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
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
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.
how
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
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the first
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
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there
appears to budge this time or
that time
and again and again
questions. laughing! coming but
but smile when starts cue
cue when but can't help but
laughing! help but smile help
smile
and lines and
remember that the stick
lines and remember many
can't lines of incense is
still
glowing is
still glowing somehow
becoming smoke in
lungs and somehow becoming
smoke lungs lungs and smoke
breathe forget to it funny!
isn't it
back
can't lines incense is still
glowing somehow becoming smoke
and we forget questions
can't
when the sun can't back right
on cue
the many lines remember
that stick of incense
glowing and smoke and and we
isn't it right on smile
but on
smile right
lines and we lines so many
lines.
lines lines and lines.
whose names lines the stick of
incense is is.
these
it! isn't
lines lines many lines. we
remember that the stick that of
incense is and we we forget but
smile cue
smile when the
coming colors remember these
lines and lines remember that
. remember that
that the
glowing
becoming we breathe and.
laughing!
we
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.