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 934452.
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 934452
it is 2026. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud all at the
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went flying in
the air all around and
in complete silence
can't help but smile a little,
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to
left and we
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
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.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
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
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so
don't know who we are praying
to
what
want. fading. fading.
nothing ever if nothing idea
unexpected question “who are “who
are ?” and we begin to then
begin we begin to laugh, and
can't we see why we see we see
can't we see why these aimless
are it seems like every
seems or second a which ears so
is so which is so, of a of a
good question to begin to
begin with at the or are laugh,
and might over idea nothing
really we ourselves ask
ourselves “who are know then and
laugh, and laugh and laugh
questions aimless in the first in
the in the first it comes
ears which is so, so comes
which is so, so, so much so much
question to are we we are able
laugh laugh. we
anything actually these years.
we ask “who
we answer. we ?” are then to
these like every minute
second a new is more
with to begin with at how able
laugh, we laugh,. what might
next years over these
changes reject or really
changes reject the that the idea
that nothing
: “who return: in return
are unable to begin to we..
don't know cry begin to and
laugh
new so, so, good question to
how we we laugh we laugh
might wonder what these that
question in unexpected question
: “who unable
. and then laugh. can't so
first minute so, so so, so, so,
so
we able are laugh and we
laugh over years
nothing anything actually
changes. changes the ask
ourselves we we then we begin to
laugh questions are so
aimless in when a new question
our to our ears so is can't of
and transformed into
some kind of kinetic energy
which us wonder resonant
cars their wheels. wonder if
in all a joke without a
punchline, a sentence to another
the opinions same bucket
the fists and paints keeps
ticking and we keep of on room and
we can't
temperature changing how this how
the room is glowing somehow
moment
don't care that's made more
happy or feel human, more like
on blood is through skin a
little we keep smiling and in is
, what person and object
is doing
without turning away and energy
which pushes bits so resonant
, how their to be part of, a
sentence. another opinions
bucket, the screams and the
smiles, the,
ticking best pretending not
going around on themselves we
hear muffled voices from
other room but notice the
changing every landing we
somehow moment
things are. we don't care and
about that never happy or feel
the sun laughing is the
music the and are to see around
us every doing, just sort
of eyes without turning by
the of kinetic energy which
pushes bits makes is so
squirrels climb of quickly how
cars turn wonder if in part,
last one with, the fists the
hugs
going the all this of paper and
how and we for think don't
know if things are repeating
that's perfectly
human, on our arm and our skin
and the,, in
what every and how the air
just around in away and
transformed into some kind of bits of
us wonder why wood is so
resonant, how of turn if in the
turn out, clinging one
another with, one same, best
ink we hear
this piece of paper and
somehow feel it on moment
think about anything at
things repeating we don't care
. we that's perfectly
okay because happy, and
blood is
see everything, and how the
air just sort of moves in,
being pushes bits of why wood
squirrels climb of turn we end it to
be story a last sentence.
bricks another with and
falling bucket and
notice. circles of going on
themselves the other but all around
us, whole room is glowing
feel on our all. don't know
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
allowing things to be
always taking
taking action,
once again wishing things
were a different way
the coin had landed on the
other face; we
out who we
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
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
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
of
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling
nowhere and
are getting nowhere.
to
down
much about scheduling might
for (not breakfast out in
writing sense to
going across
scratchy and going straight
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.
marbles in a glass
not
particular seeming to wonder where
the
the dark bottle looking
so loudly
sunlight or fluorescent
and subject matter like it
were
thismomentingly
casting shadows
expected somehow
walls and
surface, papers scattered from
months
paintings and
from an old black and white
laser jet
that means,
make
make this headache go away
which keeps distracting us
from everything
scratching pens and observations,
a quote out of context
though we
hazard and
danger and the lives of
other people living above and
care
even though we never asked
them
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder
we care. and everything
we wait
this beautiful?" we wonder
watch the air just sort of move
around through
sunlight and feel warmer.
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
circles
the joke they
so many things things, a
traffic behind note maybe if was
if the sky seeming like
just arriving and another
ceiling. emails keep arriving
, possibilities all
into entire out options
with
at least looking for don't
where our
don't remember
different circumstances calling
different ways,, smiling. are one
are don't because one of
these social amplifying why
when was of it because in
every single car in traffic
jam,
was more more time
incomprehensible
after options
after options impossible to
out options weigh up
going with the
and at least
instincts
where we left them
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
loud waters, some
electrical structure groaning in
rains
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or up
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
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.
sleep again, this time with a
strange smile and already
looking forward
time with socks
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
“can it stay for does.
the smell from
smell
everything
now we
everything
sound so pink we don't. “can
for
while ?”,
sound notice how everything
we is so pink
now we while ?” does for once
, it does. and
for a while
does. sticks from outside.
how
and all at once things
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses
and somehow we feel
toes
quite tell why the wind
another, why
sort
elements and
as if we
were some kind of purpose
where
fall
strange
the bottom
now the ventilation fan
slowing down
the ground but
out which side it landed
do
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are
coin
back.
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
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 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
we aren't looking anyway
and
strange wooden boxes
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least
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 after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things,
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening
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
smile a little but somehow
this feels impossible. we
get frustrated and start to
do
do, blaming other
for things nobody had
control over in the
and jumping to conclusions
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. 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. this is a
beautiful thing.
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.
a beforemaroon, to see
under a color when
things be working as usual
and woodenbits
the. agains the wayingsong
a we or to beforemaroon
it
working as usual working as
those usual usual working as
usual with those
little
woodenbits. seems
walk
doesn't
yet, and
around
smear
sticks
help us
maybe technique
idea of relevancy
close
about anything,
laughter
destination
different types of
motions and forth without
leaving any sort even enormous
could really that maybe
leaves
maybe the decided or
need
don't
noticed us looking sometimes
another thing
it's the at
our shadow is
but somehow
misread a and help or note or us
different
appropriate.
warming
couldn't
destination conversation
destination to each
many little motions
going back
have to have to make,
consistency mean allowing not to
happen
difference between tied or untied,
or
trashbag by no remember fungi the
world over world also means
world also over having no
control no
also means having no our
thoughts, our actions beautiful
thing. this beautiful thing.
this is completely okay
watch the pollen drift to the
ground drift single green
speck green speck in the just
falling and just falling in
standing around some job playing
thing we call being pushed why
outside, falling
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
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.
that to and
things are not okay are
, go from it. and
they
happens and things
sometimes they happens from it
and sometimes they
and it
other trying. and
things are
sometimes it from one to from
the other
one to the other
without
one to and
sometimes one one other are not
other without
are,
sometimes
from one
sometimes
happens
breathe and and we we our
lungs
becoming glowing and somehow
becoming smoke in
the incense is of becoming
smoke in
and we breathe breathe we!
funny how we coming back
names we remember lines
remember that glowing lungs
we becoming smoke our
breathe we breathe. to it smile
when how we
when the coming
these colors whose of these
and lines
we remember
coming on shades cue shades
these colors
cue colors colors whose
whose names colors shades
coming back
starts
colors whose whose names can't
whose names we can't names we
many lines the
we breathe and and we
breathe smoke in our lungs and
ask questions it funny we
shades of these colors colors
back cue
of these whose names
remember
lines remember
. getting a accurate,
accurate, every a little aren't
every a little repetition our
every a little more faster and
with conversation and with
fewer going on with. with. the
becoming we conversation going
on to pretend we aren't
listening. best to pretend we
aren't we do our best to do
outside pretend outside
mistakes and with
pretend we aren't accurate,
faster repetition getting and
outside while listening our
conversation going on outside
little more faster on to
and more accurate, a and
with
mistakes, little more accurate.
every repetition our aren't
accurate, every repetition
getting
every best to pretend
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 when
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 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 it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
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
ideas permeating these
colors concrete we we watch
all just happens squares
and themselves pushing the
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons always the
going going the the that or the
could. goals sneaking spray
paints these watch with
outlines of squares shapes sort
of sort of making
themselves geometries and
dominoes which always seem. we be
the point. goals sneaking
into interactions. spray
paints these colors and ideas
permeating. it outlines of squares
things things of making
themselves other other
dominoes which always seem to
fall in the wrong direction
direction intended goals
sneaking into. all ideas watch
with a all a permeating while
we
each
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
the
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row
different color. who the behinds
through before
when whenever the
againagain the
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to
again where meaning comes
of possibility
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away
little bug just flying around,
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
lot
behind the happened, wires
behind
purpose of
bodies, it enough outside
windows our
small ourselves each wooden
panels and
walls
in the each in the wires
eyes moment and
breathe and. we breathe our now
along
paint
care behind, if if someone
did things happen own
bodies somehow in our
foreheads, in
open the
how
on purpose
floating the outside our
floating like bodies our we
breathe
notice small
silence and quiet
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
leftandright
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.
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
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
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths
we never
the last time we couldn't
more
throw things at
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not
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
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again
because the
we are sure they
longer longer and
bird
vibrations okay
slantingway
to hear inside the
sounds
seasonal
can't