nettles

to repost about itchiness

 

pilfered from:

SIFF schedule

Dissociators I.

Needing scrambled novel, to let Luddite clause allow another to verify my wordcount, I started to surmise of Markov electronic word rearrangements, by web apps.

Dissociators, computer-generated text, scramblers, randomizers, cut-ups. Yes.

I've thus taken my text published at Abjective.

1. Here is a loop that a Diastic Reading got stuck in, with "thistle" the key:

pals practice anthologies underwear.
undulous to this white Thus heartbeat.
stumble promises tireless the things epically?

pals practice anthologies underwear.
undulous to this white Thus heartbeat.
stumble promises tireless the things epically?

pals practice anthologies underwear.
undulous to this white Thus heartbeat.
stumble promises tireless the things epically?

11. Here is an interesting rearrangement made by a first-order Markov Generator:

I clasp him, "Curro, I attain that tapestry, I just fart. Not that
fake fifth, and here in Persia, practice my cave. I will live among
white walls until I sizzle in the oyster is empty. From a victorian
chair. I will set a victorian chair. I want is empty. From a plush
owl, he puts up with the end of my scraps of warm water and I not
snap the pillow and tapestries. I'll epically letterwrite to match
my time in this hive, the thermal again over my most handsome, beside
me, who works beside the speed of a glazed piece of a plush owl,
he puts up a victorian chair. I said Uh, and hung up. Until the other
room, depress the clock. The Swede who grows bottles of the other
room, depress the edge of the thermal. I advance onto eternity, nay,
nothingness. Thus I'm there isn't enough time in my pillow – "what's
the things I echo, each pinnacle pricking me. I said I decide, tired,
I've pummelled my next peal, I'd never late. So four? If I will grow,
it is not snap the thermal. I can just run out the door, to one of
my chrysanthemum pan. At night I can be?" – how do I will set a letter-card
from Madame Lewicki, of warm water and swear tomorrow the pillow
– then throw off the mint of a letter-card from Madame Lewicki, of
upholstery and swear tomorrow the end of the year.

111. Here is a Travesty of the fifth order:

I echo, each pinnacle pricking me. I manipulate the year. I clasp him,
"Curro controls of upholstery and the blue boxers which relief at the mattress,
off into this mess? I count the edge of the day. So, six. No, I'll be latest
I can be?" – then I capture the reverb reminds me of my time inside me,
"Matt, are you awake?" She said I said I get into oblivion's pool, nestle
thermal. I throw aqua on it, I sizzle in this mess? I commit myself for
four. I clack, re-read, repeat. Then! 

1111. And Doctor Nerve gave it a ride in its Markov engine.

I clack, re-read, repeat, I said I fake my heartbeat. I jot on the broad button, and the day. So, six. No, I'll be quite patient, he must be late. Repeat. The reverb reminds me of blue-greens, she has migraines. These things I said Uh, and hung up. Until the ivory weave of pottery, my neck? I clack, re-read, repeat, I will be late. So four? If I fake fifth, and the midst of Woolf's undulous paragraphs, return to my cave. I not reprogram for another hour? Every seven minutes I will be mine. I commit myself on loop, to the shrill banshee, splash over it only takes time. I throw myself for another hour? Every seven minutes I can't tackle that fake my neck? I clasp him, "Curro, I do five, I burn in Persia, practice my cave. I attain that fake fifth, and I not snap the nook under my onyx I love you" (we smooch) and sew bookcovers and satisfied her lilting sea.

11111. Mark V. Shaney, who used to fake dates on the Usenet, had this to say, maybe summarizing it:

From a grain it will grow, it only takes time.

I'll epically letterwrite to my imprisoned pals in Persia, practice my false calligraphy.

Until the next peal, I'd never left my cave.

Once woken, maybe in the midst of my onyx I hear the alarm.

From a grain it will grow, it only takes time.

I will live among white walls until I advance onto eternity, nay, nothingness.

Thus I'm there already.

Later I'll wonder, why not reprogram for another hour?

Not that that's rank, it's idle.

How did I get into this mess?

11111-1. And if Bill Burroughs could cut it today, he might have culled these moments from the mess:

it would do fart.

seven-minute reverb

eight kicks Adderall diadems in raisins

bitter maple blue works time. dissolve.

I beside to said to mattress,

my next the blue-greens,

shrill never I back, four.

I After repeat, will manipulate

I'll seven These you prefer.

I living or denial off – she'll my inside dissolve.

will trudge Not neck?

in bells slows Every fake

No, of oblivion's paste Then!

and victorian should repeat, warm letter-card mine.

I bitter day's room. my chrysanthemum end living

my Curro they grain false of the pillow

which manipulate tomorrow the sea.

I Repeat.

The time.

oblivion's the up of takes

myself December, thermal

I Lewicki, living my clasp gulp's this it

the peal, slows it which of neck?

So, satisfied is in my back beside

I myself time.

Adderall about eons, on clack, oyster sweet out neck?

on the about What instead seven-minute fart.

11111-11. A software summarizer, more suitable for laziness to not read entire newspaper articles, Copernic, picked these three lines only:

Curro contributes, with the ivory weave of the thermal and the down in my pillow and electric drone left on loop, to the comfort of the recurrence.

I clack at the end of Woolf's undulous paragraphs, return to one line, repeat, I clack, re-read, repeat, like her lilting sea.

I throw myself on the mattress, off into oblivion's pool, nestle the owl in the nook under my arm.

Commencement.

(a word confused by colleges opposing the phrase "graduation", to eschew images of termination, hoping that the end of education is only a beginning.)

This is a blog belonging to the person known as Matt Melnicki. This is a blog that has just been born, and will continue to become, and thus there is not much to tell. Yet we all attempt to prognosticate, lest we be good Buddhists and sit and be, but then we would be being a bit lifelessly, wouldn't we? This bugger, the person Matt Melnicki, purports that this blog at blogspot/blogger, "Such a Switch!", will be candid "I am me" sorts of I-did-I-did's, whereas the other places the person Matt Melnicki places text and sentiment in are reserved for other purposes; as Buddhism and other aims of mindfulness aim to efface the ego, in the other places this person, Matt Melnicki, eschews (or, rather, tries to) all I,I,I's, all me,me,me's, all instances of making banal time-constrained perspectives of the mind inside that Matt Melnicki.