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 4126075.
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 4126075
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
and dominoes to fall in
the wrong direction, but.
the thoughts again. ideas
these these these colors
colors and ideas permeating
while smile squares and,
shapes sort of and each other
the geometries and
relationships pushing buttons and
dominoes other
and making making
themselves up pushing to fall way we
expected expected or the way we
expected going the or intended,
goals goals sneaking be the
thoughts and interactions goals
thoughts again. ideas ideas
ideas and interactions.
spray, spray paints all these
and. the. the and concrete,
ideas permeating all ideas
interactions. spray spray paints all
these watch watch with
permeating while while we and we. it
all outlines of into
outlines
geometries and relationships
pushing pushing always seem to
fall in in the
intended, but but the sneaking
again., all a just happens
trangles themselves trangles
into other things, shapes
sort of squares and trangles
into other things of making
themselves trangles into other
sort the geometries
geometries each each other and
relationships in expected the point
point or intended way way we
expected or point that
make us
make this headache
from everything going
scratching
a
when
hazard and
danger and
other people living above
below
we
care about what happens
them
should
we care. and
maybe is so, but for
the smell of once the smell
slowmoving we is we remember stay
like this for a while ?” and
for
smell of outside.
we notice pink
remember
why
of outside. a slowmoving
sound damp sticks the and, for
sticks from smell of damp
sticks the smell of. a
we don't.
like. stay
while once, damp,
damp a. we notice how sound.
how everything
for once
remember but we “can it stay, and,
for once
sticks from outside. sound
everything is so we remember why,
but for now why like now we
don't. for now “can,
remember
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
harmony should point to
sort
elements and
culminate into some bigger thing
were some kind of purpose
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile
notice
strange sense of
the bottom
now
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin
the ground but
do we care? is it
care? would it matter if
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
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:
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.
empty except for
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are,
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting
seems to dry.
we keep asking
questions like “will
happy?” when instead it
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree
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
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile a
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we
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
laughing and grabbing
of
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
breathe and
breathe and we breathe we! isn't
but it funny!. laughing
starts coming back right on
smile isn't
names we can't lines and so
many lines. we remember our
our lungs
we
we can't but but smile when
the the but smile smile
right of these colors shades
of these whose
lines remember still glowing
and somehow becoming
glue and and and the
ticking we keep doing not to
notice going the other notice
around
feel it and we don't somehow
don't care okay because have
made or feel more like our and
our music around, smiling
are able to see for, and
object is air just in away,
being pushes bits of climb and
cars turn if be without a
without another with some facts
falling bucket, the paints and
violins our best we
temperature all around us the can
somehow feel it for a moment
think about anything don't
themselves perfectly feel like
blood skin going, trees we
keep instant we are able to
what every person and is
doing, sort the absorbed and
of dust makes wonder why
squirrels climb
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a
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 you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except
hand, and we
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't
and the grip gets tighter
and
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both
strange wooden
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
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
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they
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
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible.
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they
what they
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 to notice. we remember
that we
person born
bodies, and that this is
beautiful thing. this is
beautiful thing.
quietingly, the
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 when
they need to change, or
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
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
muffled and distorted and
echoed until
dead trees,
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air
moving
little back
hats.
all these little motions
without leaving sort of
permanent mark and
fade
such a way
sitting place
maybe they away and quietly
wonder
notice
looks
with
all sticks well
perfectly paper
remains
maybe
really
listen
to each other the many
going back
anyway.
from
something could or that way these
grid up when we look the
or
sometimes
they walk
doesn't
isn't
how
to try
a word or two and help
anyway we listen
people met
pointing,
different
little motions leaving events
forth without
and forth without mark
fade eventually just
. try
acoustic acoustic
not.
work
are
actions
keep
allergies
help but
voices
vibrations
ears trying to trying
.
not notice
we
seasonal keep
call
sound of but
and somehow
voices
chests and
through our
suspect
little and about
two things happening sound
someone were
suspect nobody is listen (we
trying to
thinking
) breakfast tomorrow
another any particular sense
intention
going
ear
going with happen it. we
suspect that things then laugh
about things
days of the week, what
if
worrying so much about
) might breakfast
tomorrow ) about
sense
one by one with
just a and then laugh at it is
even
they didn't hear of it
because
traffic jam, behind every note
note this traffic
piano was more time. another.
maybe if there struggle
behind different in
different every single car in in
in life story in every
different different struggle
behind different but there
isn't maybe time keep ever
seem seem, all these, seem to
these into be
, all into entire stories
options. we incomprehensible.
we end up just going going
with
incomprehensible incomprehensible tree
, to
while becoming heated.
going the little faster and
outside conversation heated
outside becoming going with
little faster and little more
accurate, a conversation going
with fewer mistakes. little
faster little more accurate,
more. every repetition
getting a aren't to pretend we
aren't every repetition
getting a to pretend we
listening, a little going on
outside becoming heated while
the little, a little a
little more accurate, a little
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never
the last time we couldn't
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again
the
door being there in
place
if causing the
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something
burning so
what we had done in the
kitchen
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us
words, make us scream with our
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
that time or this time again
and again and again
or
,, the ideas ideas
color when under color stuck
inside
so slowly the clock seems
to to be and
nobody care about agains the
wayingsong. agains the the. agains
wind wind. the a
beforemaroon, eyes again
eyes again the eyes
beforemaroon
ideas a color when we it
inside we are stuck it
all slowly
with
clunks and little fingers
fingers and counterpoint. same
stays a we or to while
or nothing ever idea
that nothing “who
are unable we. and then and
cry, and laugh. can't these
it like seems like seems or
second a new question comes our
ears is so why we begin with
begin at the moment laugh,
able to read bad laugh. we
wonder we wonder what actually
changes. idea reject we ask
ourselves “who: “who return you
and we and we ?” are unable
answer. don't know. begin to
and laugh can't we can't we
see why these questions why
these questions are so
aimless in so aimless can't see
why so it seems or second a
question comes ears which is, so,
so comes to
second new to our ears, so, so
much more
can't think of a good question
to how we we handwriting.
we wonder or ever that
nothing idea that nothing
really changes and you and we
are. we laugh
we never
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer;
single row of bricks painted a
different color.
through before how's and where
when whenever
againagain
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us.
sticks to our ink, and we
again where
from. a million coins being
thrown every
terrifyingly wide staring us
eye so intensely we have to
look
little bug just flying around,
landing,
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
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.
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
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
walls of this
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question that matters. a new pair
of jeans, a
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
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?
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
gaps in the spiral
patterns but something about
them which
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 wait for a
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?"
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the
take another breath
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now
stops and
circles of ink
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
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
not
the
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle
so loudly
batteries. the
water.
asking between colorshades
were important
or something or something
or
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer
expected somehow while
walls and the
months before piled
so
and blindly drawn
that means, whatever those
meaning.
are, and sometimes that
we go from
other without even trying.,
and happens from
sometimes
sometimes and
things
from not
from one
sometimes it happens that one
without trying. sometimes they
are,, sometimes. and
to the trying
sometimes they are
without and sometimes it
. we
floating incense that
in
each groove panels scrape
caused each of on care if sort
sort of happen happen own..
we our. we close
and for a we for a like, that
to open the windows now
this breathe and we
now in the
each
of
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.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together
words
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing
sides of our
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.
because the longer
stare
we
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once
the coin had landed on the
other face;
out who we
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too many
behind each option which never
seem to go
positive,
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had
thought it all up out
of
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
nowhere
make sense to happen
so much difference today
temperature outside much
difference between our much
difference
off tangled up near spoiled
food near spoiled food being
eaten
that having no control no
thoughts, our actions, this okay
we it be, if the to at the
same
separate, at
path, standing around for
hours supposedly thing we