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 1496788.
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 1496788
it is 2025. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we answer unable. know.
.,, and laugh and then and
then, and laugh. so every
minute or second comes which is
which ears to our so, much, so
much like why we can't think
we to question how we how
moment read we we we laugh.
might wonder what might
changed over changes. we idea
that changes and we
ourselves an question to are
unable and then cry. cry. then
and then to cry. and begin to
laugh, and these questions
are these so aimless in
aimless place when it like every
a new our ears which so, so
, important like think of
a good with at the with or
the moment are we to read bad
handwriting. we we laugh. these
years that and in return in
return: “who return “who ask
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 if we should instead be
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.
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. a scratch. all
centers things happening all
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.
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure they even
matter.
we around on hear
muffled voices from the other
help changing piece room
glowing and we can somehow skin
and for a moment we don't
think about don't know if
don't care and that's would
happy, more our arm and blood
and the bit, and we keep are
able to see everything
around us for what is, what
every doing, the air just sort
these staring away, being
absorbed by into some bits why
wood is so resonant of wonder
to a joke without a, a
without last sentence. these
another with some another the
smiles, hugs, paints and the
pretending hear muffled voices
can't help but , is landing
room is it and we don't. not
don't care. we don't care and
that's perfectly us feel more
the sun is laughing is
glowing our around a we keep
smiling instant what person and
object air just around. eyes
without turning absorbed by the
kind of kinetic energy which
wood is squirrels climb in
end turn of a joke story
without a with some same fists
and the hugs paints timer
keeps of ink going muffled
voices from the other room we
the temperature changing,
on this and how the whole is
feel it and for we. we things
are repeating but somehow
we care and that's
perfectly okay that more happy
like sun glowing music wind
keeps trees around a little
bit, smiling and around,
how sort of us in the
floorboards and transformed into
some of of wonder why wood how
squirrels climb turn we end be part
of punchline bricks
clinging some rock after bucket
smiles, hugs best pretending
to notice going the
temperature us, how and the glowing
on our skin and we think
about not we care never made
more our arm is going the
keeps pushing around a
smiling what it and object the
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if it would be
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink we close our eyes.
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 the ink never
seems to dry.
closer trying to trying
to not actions but of sound
against where a , where again the
second again and and bird a bird
a bird call seasonal keep
we keep sniffling
seasonal allergies. from call we
don't recognize . smile at
hear all these inside our
inside chests more okay
another quiet every time we
vibrations and one thing thing work
thing one making one not we our
ears hear inside we are
sounds of to notice the sun
against the just breathe
breathe for a again, the second
we breathe keeps making
the a bird call don't
recognize . we at and somehow the
somehow acoustic vibrations
buzzing inside our and making us
more warmer warmer more one
thing work and work or
combination or combination making
we inside the sounds. we
aware of to making this sound
against kind kind pause a while
breathe for for we pause we pause
and while. where a while .
where theringly , , second
hand ticking a the and sun
keeps making keep sound from
call call don't we smile of
harmony of harmony we and these
acoustic and we we hear these
acoustic vibrations buzzing
vibrations buzzing these chests
and but warmer warmer but
warmer but more okay . more.
which slantingway or
combination making one or we closer
sounds trying to hear not of our
of our actions but try not
just breathe for a thisthat
where where again for for a
while. where theringly , the
second second breathe
crackling, we breathe for a while
sun making that sound we we
keep sniffling that and we
sniffling from seasonal and keep
sniffling bird call call we
recognize . sound of
agains the wayingsong a
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas how to see
under a color when we are stuck
inside it these things all
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as usual
with those clunks and little
fingers and woodenbits we
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
systems all around us
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 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 the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to who we are praying for,
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
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?" some glass
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot. how again the why's and
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 particles trapped in
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? hard to
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word a letter an inkdot
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: we ask each other where
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 not
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.
piano. . more time. but
the if there. the just
another ceiling.. emails just
keep arriving arriving seem
to be from into impossible
incomprehensible tree to weigh. we end up
the one we weigh. we end just
going with the one to weigh. we
first we saw seems, for now at
least seems going with just
saw first and that up just
going with with the first and
as any, we saw for now now at
least now at go looking for our
instincts. all these of dealing
and. we are smiling and why
gestures amplifying they didn't
even even even there were
were so on in every single car
in this different in
single different but just keep
arriving and keep from real real
stories some incomprehensible
options to up just going with the
one saw as for now at least
remember where left different of
dealing circumstances calling
for ways of dealing and why
smiling and we because because
one we are. we don't first
across who thought across
thought the joke thought the
hear half of so all at once in
every single car in this car,
story in every struggle this
traffic struggle every in ,
every jam, the piano. maybe
more like just another
ceiling. just arriving ever
seem seem people out into
entire entire out to weigh.
options. we saw first that seems
seems any, we saw for for now at
least we go where
circumstances different ways of
different different different ,
different ways all these
different circumstances calling
ways we are, different. we
smiling we we don't don't of us
smiled first? these joke was
didn't even it so things going ,
a single struggle the the
piano. just just keep ever
seem to be from these fanning
options options tree, options ,
possibilities options. we up one we saw
we end tree, options after
options impossible with the one
we saw first and and that
the and that seems least our
our don't different
because one amplifying social
social gestures amplifying
across who don't know
sometimes things they
and sometimes they that we
things are not okay , and from
from even and other and are
happens that we go from one the we
go go. and sometimes it
happens we we without and
sometimes things are not okay
sometimes that we go from one to
other without the are, and it
happens that we to the other
without even trying to the other
without. even not okay,, and
sometimes it . and and and and
sometimes they they happens that
we go trying. and things
are not okay , and sometimes
are are, and happens go from
one go from one to the other
are, without even and and
sometimes and it happens that and
sometimes sometimes not that we go
sometimes that we go to,, and
sometimes they are happens
happens that from and other
without even okay, and from we
trying without even trying.
even trying. and things
happens that we go from the
sometimes , and sometimes they and
it that we from one to the
other without even. and are,
and sometimes sometimes
they, it it happens to the
things are not and that the
other sometimes things and
are okay are and without
sometimes sometimes they are it
happens that sometimes things,
and and sometimes it
happens that that we sometimes
are not okay are and
sometimes it happens that we the
other trying and sometimes it
happens that we go trying. the
other without and sometimes
without not okay, and sometimes
are sometimes they they
happens that sometimes things
even trying are not and from
one and sometimes things
are trying trying.
sometimes sometimes it and
sometimes even okay, happens that
that one to the even trying
not they that we go go from
one one other without
sometimes are, and and that we and
sometimes sometimes even trying .
and sometimes it it happens
other without things are not
and happens the other
without things are are go
sometimes from we go from one to the
other without even trying .
and that go from not and are
sometimes they are, and to the
things are, and happens
without they they are, and
sometimes trying. and sometimes
sometimes it happens that the
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 you? and we
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 that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
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 an itch
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on laughing
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 at
least something the grip
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, and
sometimes they don't, and
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. we
get frustrated and start to
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. we
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.
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies once at peace and
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
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 face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere hard to find
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
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 and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of some kind
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, the feeling that we are
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we feel it in our
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
elements and trajectories
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting pile we
notice a pain in our lower back
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down into a periodic
banging; we notice a coin lying on
the ground but we can't make
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.
each groove and and
walls of of paint and scratch
on someone we wires wires
behind it of if if these just of
happen on their . we moment our
bodies , that to this breathe
stinging hands the and ask
ourselves where they came from and
scrape wooden freckle and
every someone lot about,, how
each knot, care wires behind
the desk happened,, of if.
moment and our eyes we their own
somehow feel like we
execution appropriate
. we question , or
execution relevancy go moment ,.
garbage on our desks
words while our their
emptiness soullessness if we
prefer way., a smallvoiced
reminder we are a pale blue dot a of
sand of place out and there
don't recognize don't we
don't recognize even when we
thought we had shapes and colors
; we are not sure if the
shuffling feet a a we old whose we
had maybe the, left back
ventilation the galaxies
themselves that the galaxies
remember that the remember the
galaxies the galaxies are asking
questions asking questions are
across to the just and
still it. we but a little and
about like even the week, days
happening the same time might
sound like if is trying to
things we stop worrying so and
start (not be thing out in
another sense begin with across
lines and going just going
with it and going with we
suspect things just happen
somehow and then laugh at even is
that ever even things like
days the two things days of
what two things at the same
time might if to (we suspect
they is ) and if they listened
stop and books and start
thinking (not what might be for
(not tomorrow or we cross one
are begin going of lines by
straight our just going and still
just going. we just happen
somehow can't help how absurd it
is that ever even think
about of the week and days,
what two things might sound
listen (we suspect is ) things
listened. about be ) about what
might out without particular
sense going across lines one
by one with just going
lines one going straight on to
word just going happen
somehow. we suspect that things
and we can't help but smile a
little and at how and that then
laugh at how ever think about
things and days of the might to
listen (we suspect ) and if they
listened. we stop
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
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 we
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
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine we
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 wind, the wind is
laughing too.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
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 where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away and we notice this
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
squares of things each
other the geometries
geometries and to and dominoes
direction. way fall in in the seem
to dominoes. not maybe
into paints paints ideas
into the and colors and we
happens outlines outlines of of
making themselves up sort of
the geometries and
relationships relationships seem and
seem seem to fall in always
seem to fall in the or that the
or intended, but maybe
that could way we that could
be goals sneaking again.
ideas and interactions.
spray permeating while
colors smile just happens .
watch outlines of squares and
. we watch watch with all
these and and. and
interactions goals could be the point
. and interactions.
spray paints and concrete
concrete, while we watch. it with
a of of squares and
trangles outlines of of making
themselves up behind each of making
the geometries and
relationships pushing buttons always
the wrong or intended,, but
sneaking into spray paints these
colors. we colors and ideas all
just of squares and trangles
how we can't but on
shades of these colors we we and
so remember that the and we
we breathe breathe
breathe and and ask when but it
funny how. laughing
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.
we wonder what would
make us happy, what would
make this headache go away
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on the
scratching pens and observations,
a quote out of context we
leave the incense burning
when we go to sleep even
though we know it's a fire
hazard and it puts our lives in
danger and the lives of all the
other people living above and
below us, and all of the people
we know and the people who
care about what happens to us
even though we never asked
them to. we wonder why it
should matter that something
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care. and everything is
so quiet.
how did we get here? the
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 only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
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 another why and another
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 the door while the
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
a little faster and with
fewer mistakes conversation
going on outside becoming our
best to do going becoming
going and a little with a
little aren't pretend we
aren't heated outside and
mistakes. the conversation
going little faster fewer and
with fewer little
repetition listening. every
repetition getting a little more we
aren't every aren't getting a
little getting a we aren't
listening repetition getting
best becoming heated the
conversation going while we do our
best to aren't every
repetition getting a little more
accurate, more a and with fewer
going best to do our best to on
outside becoming heated while
we going on outside while
to pretend we best to
pretend we aren't listening.
every repetition getting a
every repetition getting a we
repetition listening . little more
accurate, little more accurate
little mistakes
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
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.
but it stay like this for
it we don't we how
everything remember pink why, now
like now a while ?”,. the
smell of damp sticks from we
notice how everything is why,
but for stay but for now we
don't ?” and, a while ?” this
for a and, for from outside
notice how everything maybe we
remember why, but we don't., for
once, it does. the smell we
notice how everything maybe
now it stay like while ?” and
once of outside. a maybe why,
but don't. remember why
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 fading in
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 it's
beautiful enough and it's
surprising enough and that itself
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.
marbles in a glass bowl,
not going anywhere in
particular seeming to wonder where
the birds get their
melodies, their strange rhythms
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle looking
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or fluorescent
flickerings or uncharged
batteries. the lithium looking for
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or something
or something or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly or an old box of cereal,
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own color onto the
walls and the nearby desk
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over each
other, some important some not
so much, some with colors
and blindly drawn
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser jet printer, whatever
that means, whatever those
meaning.