A little experiment I tried. It was successful, and resulted in what you see before you.

I wrote random words and phrases in stream of consciousness until I felt inspired enough to write a story that made sense.

Here is the full text for those who don't want to download it:

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Obviously the worldis slightly insane. Just look at it! The baubles don't fit quite right. Strange, remarkable, amazing; it just makes you want to kill yourself with butter. I can't even imagine any sort of bulbery inductory craziness that inhabits words and makes them go higgledy-piggledy all over the map.

Nothing Interesting Ever Happens

"May you live in interesting times." -Chinese curse

Trees dance and sing with renewed vigour: the morning air twirls around them. Mist rises from forgotten pools that have, at last, relinquished the night's cool to drink in the burning gaze of their Sun. It is the sort of day where nothing interesting happens. An aardvark makes its way cautiously through bushes, trying to pretend it isn't about to be eaten.

Who knows what horrors today will bring, for the beauty of it is remarkably able to show all of the madness in the world. The birds flutter and tweet their way about, pecking, scarring each other with beaks like spears in a fluttery fight. The leaves bend out of the way without any thought as the brown, black, red, blue streaks flit between them screeching curses.

On the ground is another war entirely. The incessant buzz and whirr of a thousand horrors could have been heard if the birds weren't tweeting or if the breeze weren't blowing. They are machines built and bred for war and survival, each new model slightly better than the last; so varied, so perfect, so destructable. An enormous jungle of grass, roots, tunnels and flowers masks the killing machines that work to annihilate any and every threat they face. When one is destroyed, a million more take is place though all are nothing more than scrap for the scavengers.

Speaking of which, one of the twitching, thundering horrors is crushed by a massive paw belonging to a terror in itself. Its fur is like the noonday sun beating down upon the land; its paws beat the ground with the same energy. It is racing through the forest, eyes wild, fangs bared, dodging branches and bushes in pursuit of its own survival. It is a fleeting thing, always just a step ahead of the beast, but this creature always grinds survival to the dirt with its massive appendages, ready to feast.

Teeth and claws rip and tear; the screams of death and the fountain of blood are the only noise in this world. They are the necessary ends that allow for beginning.

Red soaks the earth; what remains the carcass rots or is picked apart by feathered demons cloaked in shadow and by the mechanical nightmares from the grassroots. As you can see, nothing interesting is happening.