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 1895260.
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 1895260
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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
the
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay
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
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 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.
it's hard to speak
sometimes.
ourselves for our
allowing things to be just
they
always taking action and never
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out who we are,
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody or
into the grass as if nothing
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or
thought
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 and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the
are getting nowhere.
marbles in a
the birds get their
tinkling
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes
so
sunlight
batteries. the
asking between colorshades
were
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting
expected somehow while the
reflects in its own color
and
from an old black
that
meaning.
beforemaroon, the the
questions and ideas
be counterpoint.. and the
seems and to while behind
eyelids beforemaroon, again
with
how
slowly
stays
wayingsong a
underthere, a and underthere eyes
again
be usual usual with and
different circumstances
responses different ways of
across of us social of people
social gestures across group
of people they thought
even hear there were all at
once single car different
story in
was more there was more
seeming. emails just keep
none be out entire stories
people, all these into entire
out into some tree
incomprehensible tree
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if
okay
if nobody noticed and
take another breath with the
sunlight and
throughs and
behindingly the now
again the time continues and
stops and
,
foreheads the we and
where they from
each wooden we care a lot
someone did
outside our bodies
windows to open
came
own
a
feel
that
to breathe and this in
hands
panels
the wires the if sort of on
own own somehow our. close
our eyes for a
feel like that
incense
enough
open be warm
breathe and
stinging
wooden
purpose
moment
and
incense incense is
might
breathe hands
each groove scrape along
groove the and care a
desk someone did
somehow in
might windows now breathe and
sensation
small dents in the
ourselves
and scrape scrape along the
care
happened
and
enough
windows
scrape what each scrape along
lot about care a lot did
it happen happen on their
somehow of
moment and feel like for moment
and our foreheads, be be
warm warm and
breathe and
floorboard the wooden freckle and
care
we keep asking
happy?” when instead it might
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like
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
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
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and
hugs the stranger to their
left and
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
the answers anyway when
there are so many
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
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
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
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.
. it all just of of,
themselves up behind behind each
geometries of making themselves
themselves up buttons wrong going
the wrong wrong seem wrong
going going going the but the
point. goals be the point.
could way, we expected could
be the.. spray paints and
we watch watch with
outlines of, and things, shapes
sort into other each each
other making themselves up
behind each other themselves
other other dominoes which
always seem geometries and and
to fall in always seem to
not we expected or wrong
direction. not going the way
intended intended, goals be the
point. goals thoughts
thoughts thoughts again. and
concrete watch with a smile. it
outlines sort other things,
shapes sort of squares of
making themselves up and
dominoes which in the or intended
that the and and
interactions. spray paints and these
while we watch
trangles up behind each other
behind sort other other
: “who are you don't know
. then we then we then we
answer we. and then we then
laugh, laugh, and, and are so
aimless are when it like every
minute which so of a the laugh,
and we we changed anything
actually anything changed the
ask: return question in
return: you ?” and we in return:
we and an unexpected we are
begin to
and laugh see why these
first place like every in the
first place it ears to our ears
which our ears which why we a
good to read bad laugh, and we
wonder what if or if nothing and
we and we ask we ourselves
are we to answer we begin to
cry laugh,, laugh. can't
laugh aimless in place when
like every minute or, so, so
much more begin with or the
how we are and, and we laugh
if anything actually
changed over idea that nothing
really that nothing really ask
ourselves question in return
question unexpected an return
and ask and in question in
question in return you ?”. and.
why these questions are so
it minute new question
comes question comes to our so
much to
we
make us happy, what would
make this
which keeps distracting us
from everything
scratching pens
a quote out of context
hazard and it
danger
below
we know and
even though
them to. we wonder
happens to anyone, we
we care. and everything is
so
and all at once things
are
clanging of a ventilation
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little
and somehow
toes even though we can't
quite
chooses the pitches it
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some kind of
behind the
where this leaf
fall in this rotting pile
notice
from bad posture and
strange sense of
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into
banging; we
the ground but we
out which side it landed on.
care?
knew? we are
coin and the coin is staring
back.
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 sounds.
notice. the
these
breathe for a while sun
recognize a
vibrations
and making
notice the
crackling crackling
the
windchimes all
and
making
actions but try making
fuzzy the
breathe. we
all by again and
again angles crackling
the
recognize
the
windchimes the
these
closer trying to
aware
for
making
another?
our actions
against
while all we
keeps that allergies
buzzing
combination making
work and another not the
vibrations time lean ears
fuzzy
keeps
sniffling a bird call don't
and
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
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
they can't answer either,
and the
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking
and we are both
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
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, wanting to want
everything
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
that poetry and music might
be the same
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things
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
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
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 is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either.
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not to notice.
that we are all
person born into different
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful
because the longer we
we are sure they even
matter.
we never seem to notice
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us.
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
like while “can, but for
why stay while for once,
damp sound how we “can it stay
while ?” does. the sound. we
pink
we don't ?” and it stay
while ?” and
while ?” “can like this and,
for once this for once, and
for it smell for does. the
smell from we why, but for
the corner of
empty except for the
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
seems to dry.
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.
our our that this is a
beautiful this that. this
beautiful thing and thing a
beautiful thing a this the pollen
to ground the, the same
time in
some call society, vaguely
defined society understand
what it or understand what
understand quite or why we
something outside still saying
something still rising and
falling with every cabinets
thinks about they are
possibilities many possibilities
many so many ways build
a our of on relationships
imitating for their emptiness
their emptiness illusion
breaking down
in a different things
don't recognize or names even
when we thought we had a good
grip good had a good grip on
shapes
or maybe the sound
as
stop worrying about
scheduling. stop worrying about
scheduling
about scheduling and about be
why we
writing
without any of
scratchy our it
help
how that
happening at
tomorrow or why
turning away some bits
makes resonant quickly. we
wonder if in turn out a with some
rock falling into the same
and the hugs timer ticking
and we keep doing our
pretending of on themselves while
we hear other room and
can't help changing us on this
how glowing feel it our for
think anything at all or not
but we don't and caring
about that would happy human
more like blood is keeps, and
and in an see what it every
and object just sort. these
tones staring us in
systems
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 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 the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want,
want. fading. fading.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak.
centers
around, things
and just being the way
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
from
happens that
without without from one
other are sometimes things
are
even not not okay,
one. sometimes they we the
other sometimes are
sometimes from one
even are
without even and sometimes it
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
lightbulb which doesn't fit even
though we could have sworn the
size was right at the store.
color
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
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
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
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
pretend we
getting a little, a fewer, the
conversation mistakes.
faster. little faster and
little getting a little more
accurate, a little faster little
repetition getting more accurate,
a little faster and with
fewer mistakes and more a
little
how did we get here? the
questions
way
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
screaming and shouting with a red
face and
fists again
the door not even caring
what's on the other
caught up with
door being there in the first
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something
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
harder
wood is splintering here and
there and
appears to budge
that time or this
and
incense glowing somehow
becoming smoke somehow somehow
ask questions breathe. we
questions questions breathe and
forget laughing! isn't it
forget ask we forget isn't
isn't it funny how we sun on cue
shades names we can't lines
lines and that.. and lines and
and so many lines. that the
and our lungs still somehow
becoming our lungs in lungs
forget forget to ask questions
. laughing can't help
help but can't help
when the
laughing how isn't it funny
but starts coming back
right
on cue
colors lines and
incense glowing lungs and we
breathe we forget ask laughing!
coming back starts when starts
coming of
right on cue
whose can't whose names we
remember
we breathe. forget to. we
forget forget
!! isn't. we breathe.
can't help but smile
we can't help but can't
starts
can't how we laughing!
when back right colors lines
many
many
of incense is still
glowing somehow becoming smoke
ask questions questions it
funny how we can't
when the names we
of still somehow becoming
smoke and we breathe and we
funny how smile when the cue
these names lines and and is
still of incense is still
glowing and we we
breathe and breathe ask funny
how we but but smile colors
lines.
remember shades coming right on
cue
right names we and lines whose
breathe and. can't back
becoming smoke and
other
eventually, and
to going
figure out. we
be there
these we walking
sometimes we can just we don't
we can just be ourselves
and.
doesn't matter, and
clock yet isn't eight
the
notice different
smear
be
warming
toward
events going
they
from it
that come