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.
MORE.
ReplyDelete11111-111. Parody Text Factory by Matt Oates.
Repeat. The Swede who grows bottles of the( we smooch) and, she has migraines. From a glazed piece of my pillow, and storm out the oyster is December, Curro, until I will grow, I snooze.
At night I commit myself for another hour? Every seven- paint ornament in the womb. Bake a bundt in my arm. These things I said I can ll be mine. Thus I s maple retreating, pushed by the thermal. I count the down in agony, each pinnacle pricking me, until I count the down in agony, in.
The eight that tapestry, somehow drape the alarm. But slumber is December, what s rank, kay tog! Then! Then! After eons, are you awake? If I jot on it only takes time. Pia promises she ll be? If I am never late.
I am never left my arm. In between bells she has migraines.
11111-1111. Haykranen's Markov Chain Text Generator
ReplyDeleteof pottery, I will live among white walls until the things aren't raisins which I plot to evict, and stumble back the bitter-card from Madame Lewicki, of a vict, and the door. But slumber is not my superlative, I never left my corduroy lapel, or border my tireless lists all the thingness. Thus I'm there already. How did I close my eyes wishing him into my imprisoned pals in. I trudge to the other abruptly, "obm russeng me. I fake fifth, and satisfied her and with banality, and storm out Adderall or border my bare back. I attain the midst of my time in the midst of my time in the day's diligence will be midst of my microbiology profession, I jot on loop, to the the end of the autumn's maple retreating, the should know, until I attain the mattress, off the blue boxers which reliably shrill banshee, my sinister I'll wonder, why nothings aren't raisins white patient, he pillow and electric drone left on loop, to the other hour? Every seven minutes I burn in response to Owen Jones. I'll be quite patient, he puts up with my dawn routine. I clack – how drape the owl in the hour? Every seven-minute serials. Curro contributes, with the ivory weave of the things are you" (we smooch) and I close my levant is December, the sagebrush outside, begin my neck? I am never late. Repeat.
11111-11111. A cut-up by The Lazarus Corporation.
ReplyDeleteMy pate, pricking me. I pushed by fake button, blue-greens, repeat.
the my I echo, circuits shrivel; it is foam swede who which reliably manages to that works somehow erect, rove to the between room, depress thermal again over other raisins bare back. I the broad room. pia promises how do I not beside grows aren't me, migraines. she should fills the me, drape the awkwardly crook interrupt bottles of and stumble back, ineffably these things bells she each know, she pinnacle the pillow – she'll call. in has snap the relentlessly. I rise who in my neck? I am never late.
11111-11111. Again, a cut-up by The Lazarus Corporation.
ReplyDeleteOther room, depress the broad button, and shrivel; it is my neck? I pinnacle pricking me. I fake my levant relentlessly. I works beside ineffably fills the room. pia promises stumble back, rove to the somehow drape the thermal again over my bare back. I awkwardly crook she has migraines. these things aren't raisins which reliably she'll am never late. repeat.
the swede who I echo, each call. in between bells she manages to interrupt me, the circuits in my pate, pushed by the pillow – how do I not snap me, who grows bottles of blue-greens, she should know, rise erect, foam that
11111-11111-1. Web Markov by Hakank.
ReplyDelete(I admit I edited it a bit).
Beside the shrill banality, I hung up. Until i advance woken, maybe in the edge of warm water and with the oyster, it is not my cave.
I count the hours back with the bitter powder, why not snap the circuits in my chrysanthemum pan?
At night I jot on one of my seven minute serials. Curro controls the pottery, my most handsome, he begins my arm.
The mind with banality, I sew bookcovers and I close my wishing eyes, which reliably shrivel; it is foam from that fake fifth, and i clasp him, Curro contributes and I burn in agony, under the oyster, and so I sew bookcovers and swear tomorrow to contribute, with banality. And so I storm out the pillow and sew bookcovers and I clack, no that's the broad button, and sew bookcovers and the day. so, six. no, i'll be mine.
then! then! then! then! after eons, in between and surreptitious, furtive as he ekes at working for poems, I have a plush outside, begin my hustled bikeride.
matthew melnicki is empty, from a grain that tapestries. i'll sort through my scraps of the mint, the comfort of the "song", so it dissolves.
11111-11111-11. Markov Text Synthesizer at Beetle in a Box.
ReplyDeleteI plot to evict, and tapestries. I'll wonder, why not reprogram for four.
I pull on the caffeine kicks in. I advance onto eternity, nay, nothingness. Thus I'm there already. How did I close my bedroom walls with the controls of living which reliably shrivel; it only takes time. I trudge to the morning. I'll be mine.
I prefer. What I capture the edge of blue-greens, she has migraines. These things aren't raisins which I clack, re-read, repeat, I not my scraps of the end of the alarm. I plot to Owen Jones. Bake a plush owl, he puts up with my pillow – "what's the autumn's maple retreating, the alarm. I capture the alarm. I can be?" – how do five, I capture the thermal again over my heartbeat. I commit myself for four.
I can just fart. Not that they say, it's impossible; there already. How did I close my cave.
I just run out the speed of living which reliably shrivel; it only takes time. I advance onto eternity, nay, nothingness. Thus I'm there isn't enough time in my mind with the day's diligence will live among white walls with stencilled spray-paint ornament in relief at the
--(and again)--
I clack at the caffeine kicks in. I clack at the pillow, until I am never left my superlative, I do five, I clasp him, "Curro, I can't tackle that fake my pate, pushed by the latest I am never late. So four? If I have a glazed piece of a glazed piece of pottery, my sinister white walls with banality, and I can be?" – "what's the morning. I'll be quite patient, he puts up a plush owl, he must be mine.
I throw myself supine, and hung up. Until the "song" so it dissolve. I said I trudge to Owen Jones. Bake a letter-card from Madame Lewicki, of blue-greens, she has migraines. These things I echo, each pinnacle pricking me. I love you" (we smooch) and electric drone left my mind with the controls of a scoop of the autumn's maple retreating, the shrill banshee, splash over my hustled bikeride. I burn in my corduroy lapel, or border my pillow and stumble back, somehow drape the midst of my time in my imprisoned pals in my corduroy lapel, or border my chrysanthemum pan.
At night I trudge to match my scraps of my scraps of the next
--(and again)--
I set myself on the womb. But slumber is foam that fake my superlative, I trudge to the thermal. I can be?" – how do five, I can't tackle that they say, it's impossible; there already. How did I can just fart. Not that they say, it's the end of warm water and watch it only takes time. I can just fart. Not that they say, it's idle. The reverb reminds me of my bare back. I count the latest I manipulate the recurrence. The eleven anthologies stay in my heartbeat. I fake my microbiology profession, I burn in my seven-minute serials. Curro contributes, with banality, and the thermal and here in Persia, practice my time inside the next peal, I'd never late. Repeat.
The reverb reminds me of my chrysanthemum pan.
At night I will live among white walls with stencilled spray-paint ornament in my bedroom walls with the recurrence. The eight that ineffably fills the door, to interrupt me, who grows bottles of the sagebrush outside, begin my onyx I said I not reprogram for red underwear. I burn in agony, then throw aqua on the sweet denial of blue-greens, she should know, she should know, she manages