Just thought I'd send you a weird Markov output that I got from your page.
Here ya go.
Jeff McLeod

Ritual Curse #1 Feed, extrapolate. In death and cower in the mass sprouts legs and dries up. Grandfather--thought to them. Walking to be the coffin's flesh the bloodstream by you will shrink everyday. The toll of the belfry. The spit from the corner of waste taken and seeing eyes sinking back the vocal cords. One must see them, smell them, feel them, feel the well, the meat the belfry. The toll of the rubber sheet crying itself to breathe no one knew just like it no air to be found until it in. Little rivers drying force of war and bores deeper into the populacepapercuts across the need to desperation. Hope mutates into the hold it away and seeing eyes sinking back into their resting places. Deep down in to meet the chest down for the face. The urine pounds with blood--gorging on your brother's burned face. The drizzle of malfunction radiates from the wall of your house by the hold for your brother's burned face. Beaten down in your brother's burned face. The moon always rises, the sucking in something foul and cower in the bloodstream by the surface for your knowledge--turned into to some new vile form a hole in a straight line and ends of holes is the hell of its hair into the soul like weeds from the face the blabber spewed from a brown face the sucking in salts and herbs. Bless this meal before he snapped your wide-mouthed little boy's neck. He reached for the jabbering mealy-mouths--fingers jabbing into their home over so many dead bodies. Aftermath #1 Porous media wormhole buttonhole the hell of thorns into the body. Parasites will come away--the border will take it wants. Rips humans up like angels' kisses right before it's destination. The toll of life, they'll be lying still and rub the winter chill will not such a tumor in the winter chill will not staving the good life and was when the bonesaw and prepare a gutter or a bell, then wake--always. It's in the well, the pretense of your knowledge--turned into suffering. With these images of the lips, the good life and herbs. Bless this meal before it's well-known that dissolved and your dreams. The bulk will find their home over so many dead thing when you will shrink everyday. The toll of others shall bulge and sight and clean the end the boring drill. Their heads hold for 300 days the temple where the sucking in the thoughts give way to some new vile form shivering glimpsed from the face made of the temple where the lips, the bugs can congregate. Blood from a dead thing when the drying by shadows, covered in salts and your knowledge--turned into gold until you're bones the dead. The masses will come exterminate you. Exploratory devilish groping factions. Delusion exorcised, destroyed. Obliterated down hours spent staring at its damaging name. A stink of war and decay made of holes is absolute.

Doctor Nerve's Markov Page