Context-based Keyword Generating Tool

Context-based Keyword Generating Tool: Context-based Keyword Generating Tool: Takes what you write and displays context sensitive words based on their proximity to the last word you typed. These can be used to figure out what the next GM response is. Great for on the fly inspiration with a GM feel. See How To Use This Tool Word proximity before and after current keyword (the higher the number, the more suggestions you get):

Seed text (copy/paste new text to change it!):
Everything is destined to reappear as simulation. Jean Baudrillard, America 1. Burning, Burning On a rainy morning in Seattle, Gonzales was ready for the egg. A week ago he had returned from Myanmar, the country once known as Burma, and now, after two days of drugs and fasting, he was prepared: he had become an alien, at home in a distant landscape. His brain was filled with blossoms of fire, their spread white flesh torched to yellow, the center of a burning world. On the dark stained oak door, angel wings danced in blue flame, their faces beatific in the cold fire. Staring at the animated carved figures, Gonzales thought, the fire is in my eyes, in my brain. He pushed down the s-curved brass handle and stepped through to the hallway, his split-toed shoes of soft cotton and rope scuffing without noise across floors of bleached oak. Through the open door at the hallway's end, morning's light through stained glass made abstract patterns of crimson and buttery yellow. Inside the room, a blue monitor console stood against the far wall, SenTrax corporate sunburst glowing on its face; in the center of the room was the egg, split hemispheres of chromed steel, cracked and waiting. One half-egg was filled with beige tubes and snakes of optic cable, the other half with hard dark plastic lying slack against the shell. Gonzales rubbed his hands across his eyes, then pulled his hair back into a long hank and slipped a circle of elastic over it. He reached to his waist and grabbed the bottom hem of his navy blue t-shirt and pulled the shirt over his head. Dropping it to the floor, he kicked off his shoes, stepped out of baggy tan pants and loose white cotton underpants and stood naked, his pale skin gleaming with a light coat of sweat. His skin felt hot, eyes grainy, stomach sore. He stepped up and into a chrome half-egg, then shivered and lay back as body-warmth liquid bled into the slack plastic, which began to balloon underneath him. He took hold of finger-thick cables and pushed their junction ends home into the sockets set in the back of his neck. As the egg continued to fill, he fit a mask over his face, felt its edges seal, and inhaled. Catheters moved toward his crotch, iv needles toward the crooks of both arms. The egg shut closed on him and liquid spilled into its interior. He floated in silence, waiting, breathing slowly and deeply as elation punched through the chaotic mix of emotions generated by drugs, meditation, and the egg. No matter that he was going to relive his own terror, this was what moved him: access to the many-worlds of human experience travel through space, time, and probability all in one. Virtual realities were everywhere virtual vacations, sex, superstardom, you name itbut compared to the egg, they were just high-res videogames or stage magic. VRs used a variety of tricks to simulate physical presence, but the sensorium could be fooled only to a certain degree, and when you inhabited a VR, you were conscious of it, so sustaining its illusion depended on willing suspension of disbelief. With the egg, however, you got total involvement through all sensory modalities the worlds were so compelling that people waking from them often seemed lost in the waking world, as if it were a dream. A needle punched into a membrane set in one of the neural cables and injected a neuropeptide mix. Gonzales was transported. # It was the final day of Gonzales's three week stay in Pagan, the town in central Myanmar where the government had moved its records decades earlier, in the wake of ethnic rioting in Yangon. He sat with Grossback, the Division Head of SenTrax Myanmar, at a central rosewood table in the main conference room. The table's work stations, embedded oblongs of glass, lay dark and silent in front of them. Gonzales had come to Myanmar to do an information audit. The local SenTrax group supplied the Federated State of Myanmar with its primary information utilities: all its records of personnel and materiel, and all transactions among them. A month earlier, SenTrax Myanmar's reports had triggered "look-see" alarms in the home company's passive auditing programs, and Gonzales and his memex had been sent to look more closely at the raw data. So for twenty straight days Gonzales and the memex had explored data structures and their contents, testing nominal functional relationships against reality. Wherever there were movements of information, money, equipment or personnel, there were records, and the two followed. They searched cash trails, matched purchase orders to services and materiel, verified voucher signatures with personnel records, cross-checked the personnel records themselves against government databases, and traced the backgrounds and movements of the people they represented; they read contracts and back-chased to their bid and acquisition; they verified daily transaction logs. Hard, slogging work, all patience and detail, and so far it had shown nothing but the usual inefficiencies Grossback didn't run a particularly taut operation, but, as of the moment, he didn't seem to have a corrupt one. However, neither he nor SenTrax Myanmar was cleared yet; Gonzales's final report would come later, after he and the memex had analyzed the records at their leisure. Gonzales stretched and rubbed his eyes. As usual at the end of short-term, intensive gigs like this, he felt tired, washed- out, eager to go. He said to Grossback, "I've got a company plane out of here late this afternoon to Bangkok. I'll connect with whatever commercial flight's available there." Grossback smiled, obviously glad Gonzales was leaving. Grossback was a slight man, of mixed German and Thai descent; he had a light brown complexion, black hair, and delicate features. He wore politically correct clothing in the old-fashioned Burmese style: a dark skirt called a longyi, a white cotton shirt. During Gonzales's time there, Grossback had dealt with him coldly and correctly from behind a mask of corporate protocol and clenched teeth. Fair enough, Gonzales had thought: the man's operation was suspect, and him along with it. Anyway, people resented these outside intrusions almost every time; representing Internal Affairs, Gonzales answered only to his division head, F.L. Traynor, and SenTrax Board, and that made almost everyone nervous. "You leaving out of Myaung U Airport?" Grossback asked. "No, I've asked for a pick-up south of town." Like anyone else who could arrange it, he was not going to fly out of Pagan's official airport, where partisan groups had several times brought down aircraft. Surely Grossback knew that. Grossback asked, "What will your report say?" Surprised, Gonzales said, "You know I can't tell you anything about that." Even mentioning the matter constituted an embarrassment, not to mention a reportable violation of corporate protocol. The man was either stupid or desperate. "You haven't found anything," Grossback said. What was his problem? Gonzales said, "I have a year's data to examine before I can make an assessment." "You won't tell me what the preliminary report will look like," Grossback said. His face had gone cold. "No," said Gonzales. He stood and said, "I have to finish packing." For the moment, he just wanted to get out before Grossback did something irretrievable, like threatening him or offering a bribe. "Goodbye," Gonzales said. The other man said nothing as Gonzales left the room. # Gonzales returned to the Thiripyitsaya Hotel, a collection of low bungalows fabricated from bamboo and ferro-concrete that stood above the Irrawady River. The rooms were afflicted by Myanmar's tattered version of Asian tourist decor: lacquered bamboo on the walls, along with leaping dragon holos, black teak dresser, tables, chairs, and bed frame, ceiling fans that had wandered in from the twentieth century just to give your average citizen that rush of the Exotic East, Gonzales figured. However, the hotel had been rebuilt less than a decade before, so, by local standards, Gonzales had luxury: working climatizer, microwave, and refrigerator. Of course, many nights the air conditioner didn't work, and Gonzales lay sweaty and semi-conscious through hot, humid nights then was greeted just after dawn by lizards fanning their ruby neck flaps and doing push ups. He had gotten up several of those mornings and walked the cart paths that threaded the plains around Pagan, passing among the temples and pagodas as the sun rose and turned the morning mist into a huge veil of luminous pink, with the towers sticking up like fairy castles. Everywhere around Pagan were the temples, thousands of them, young and flourishing when William the Conqueror was king. Now, quick-fab structures housing government agencies nested among thousand year old pagodas, some in near perfect condition, like Thatbyinnu Temple, myriad others no more than ruins and forgotten names. You gained merit by building pagodas, not by keeping up those built by someone long dead. Like some other Southeast Asian countries, Myanmar still was trying to recover from late-twentieth century politics; in Myanmar's case, its decades-long bout with round-robin military dictatorships and the chaos that came in their wake. And as was so often the case in politically wobbly countries, it still restricted access to the worldnet; through various kinds of governments, its leaders had found the prospect of free information flow unacceptable. Ka-band antennas were expensive, their use licensed by permits almost impossible to get. As a result, Gonzales and the memex had been like meat eaters stranded among vegetarians, unable to get their nourishment. He'd taken down the memex that morning. Its functions dormant, it lay nestled inside one of his two fiber and aluminum shock-cases, ready for transport. The other case held memory boxes containing SenTrax Myanmar group's records. When they got home, Gonzales would tell the memex the latest news about Grossback, how the man had cracked at the last moment. Gonzales was sure the m-i would think what he did Grossback was dog dirty and scared they would find it. # At the edge of a sandy field south of Pagan, Gonzales waited for his plane. Gonzales wore his usual international traveller's mufti, a tan gabardine two-piece suit over an open-collared white linen shirt, dark brown slip over shoes. His hair was gathered back into a ponytail held together by a silver ring made from lizard figures joined head-to-tail. Next to him sat a soft brown leather bag and the two shock-cases. In front of him a pagoda climbed in a series of steeples to a gilded and jeweled umbrella top, pointing to heaven. On its steps, beside the huge paw of a stone lion, a monk sat in full lotus, his face shadowed by the animal rising massive and lumpy and mock fierce above him. The lion's flanks were dyed orange by sunset, its lips stained the color of dried blood. The minutes passed, and the monk's voice droned, his face in shadow. rows of narrow wooden benches but was now empty almost all the tourists would have joined the crush on the terraces of Thatbyinnu, where they could watch the sun set over the temple plain. "Last tour of the day," the cart said. "Very cheap, also very good exchange rate offered as courtesy to visitors." It wanted to exchange kyats for dollars or yen: in Myanmar, even the machines worked the black market. "No thanks." "Extremely good rate, sir." "Fuck off," Gonzales said. "Or I'll report you as defective." The cart whirred as it moved away. ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ Gonzales watched a young monk eyeing him from the other side of the road, ready to come across and beg for pencils or money. Gonzales caught the monk's eye and shook his head. The monk shrugged and walked on, his orange robe billowing. Where the hell was his plane? Soon hunter flares would cut into the new moon's dark, and government drones would scurry around the edges of the shadows like huge mutant bats. Upcountry Myanmar trembled on the edge of chaos, beset by a multi-ethnic mix of Karens, Kachins, and Shans in various political postures, all fierce, all contemptuous of the central government. They fought with whatever was at hand, from sharpened stick to backpack missile, and they only quit when they died. A high-pitched wail built quickly until it filled the air. Within seconds a silver swing-wing, an ungainly thing, each huge rectangular wing loaded with a bulbous, oversized engine pod, came low over the dark mass of forest. Its running lights flashing red and yellow, the swing-wing slewed to a stop above the field, wings tilting to the perpendicular and engine sound dropping into the bass. Its spots picked out a ten-meter circle of white light that the aircraft dropped into, blowing clouds of sand that swept over Gonzales in a whirlwind. The inverted fans' roar dropped to a whisper, and with a creak the plane kneeled on its gear, placing the cockpit almost on the ground. Gonzales picked up his bags and walked toward the plane. A ladder unfolded with a hydraulic hiss, and Gonzales stepped up and into the plane's bubble. "Mikhail Gonzales?" the pilot asked. His multi-function flight glasses were tilted back on his forehead, where their mirrored ovoid lenses made a blank second pair of eyes; a thin strand of black fiberoptic cable trailed from their rim. Beneath the glasses, his thin face was brown and seamed. No cosmetic work for this guy, Gonzales thought. The man wore a throwaway "tropical" shirt with dancing pink flamingos on a navy blue background. "That's me," Gonzales said. He gestured with the shock-case in his right hand, and the pilot toggled a switch that opened the luggage locker. Gonzales put his bags into the steel compartment and watched as the safety net pulled tight against the bags and the compartment door closed. He took a seat in the first of eight empty rows behind the pilot. Cushions sighed beneath him, and from the seat back in front of him a feminine voice said, "You should engage your harness. If you need instructions, please say so now." Gonzales snapped closed the trapezoidal catch where shoulder and lap belts connected, then stretched against the harness, feeling the sweat dry on his skin in the plane's cool interior. "Thank you," said the voice. The pilot was speaking to Myaung U Airport traffic control as the plane lifted into twilight over the city. The soft white glow from the dome light vanished, then there were only the last moments of orange sunlight coming through the bubble. The temple plain was spread out beneath, all murk and shadow, with the temple and pagoda spires reaching up toward the light, white stucco and gold tinted red and orange. "Man, that's a beautiful sight," the pilot said. "You're right," Gonzales said. It was, but he'd seen it before, and besides, it had already been a long day. The pilot flipped his glasses down, and the plane banked left and headed south along the river. Gonzales lay back in his seat and tried to relax. They flew above black water, following the Irrawady River until they crossed an international flyway to Bangkok. Dozing in the interior darkness, Gonzales was almost asleep when he heard the pilot say, "Shit, somebody's here. Partisan attack group, probably no recognition codes. Must be flying ultralight sour radar didn't see them. We've got an image now, though." "Any problem?" Gonzales asked. "Just coming for a look. They don't bother foreign charters." And he pointed to their transponder message flashing above the primary displays: THIS INTERNATIONAL FLIGHT IS NON-MILITARY. IT CLAIMS RIGHT OF PASSAGE UNDER U.N. ACT OF 2020. It would keep on repeating until they crossed into Thai airspace. The flight computer display lit bright red with COLLISION WARNING, and a Klaxon howl filled the plane's interior. The pilot said, "Fuck, they launched!" The swing-wing's turbines screamed full out as the plane's computer took command, and the pilot's hands gripped his yoke, not guiding, just hanging on. Gonzales's straps pulled tight as the plane tumbled and fell, corkscrewed, looped, climbed again smart metal fish evading fiery harpoons. Explosions blossomed in the dark, quick asymmetrical bursts of flame followed immediately by hard thumping sounds and shock waves that knocked the swing-wing as it followed its chaotic path through the night. Then an aircraft appeared, flaring in fire that surged around it, its pilot in blazing outline a stick figure with arms thrown to the sky in the instant before pilot and aircraft disintegrated in flame. Their own flight went steady and level, and control returned to the pilot's yoke. Gonzales's shocked retinas sparkled as the night returned to blackness. "Collision averted," the plane's computer said. "Time in red zone, six point eight nine seconds." "What the hell?" Gonzales said. "What happened?" "Holy Jesus motherfucker," the pilot said. Gonzales sat gripping his seat, chilled by the blast of cold air from the plane's air conditioner onto his sweat-soaked shirt. He glanced down to his lap: no, he hadn't pissed himself. Really, everything happened too quickly for him to get that scared. A Mitsubishi-McDonnell "Loup Garou" warplane dived in front of them and circled in slow motion. Like the ultralights it was cast in matte black, but with a massive fuselage. It turned a slow barrel roll as it circled them, lazy predator looping fat, slow prey, then turned on brilliant floods that played across their canopy. The pilot and Gonzales both froze in the glare. Then the Loup Garou's black cockpit did a reverse-fade; behind the transparent shell Gonzales saw the mirror-visored pilot, twin cables running from the base of his neck. The Loup Garou's wings slid forward into reverse-sweep, and it stood on its tail and disappeared. Gonzales strained against his taut harness. "Assholes!" the pilot screamed. "Who was that?" Gonzales asked, his voice thin and shaking. "What do you mean?" "The Myanmar Air Force," the pilot said, his voice tight, face red beneath the flight glasses' mirrors. "They set us up, the pricks. They used us to troll for a guerrilla flight." The pilot flipped up his glasses and stared with pointless intensity out the cockpit window, as if he could see through the blackness. "And waited," he said. "Waited till they had the whole flight." The pilot swiveled around abruptly and faced Gonzales, his features distorted into a mad and angry caricature of the man who had welcomed Gonzales ninety minutes before. "Do you know how fucking close we came?" he asked. No, Gonzales shook his head. No. "Milliseconds, man. Fucking milliseconds. Close enough to touch," the pilot said. He swiveled his seat to face forward, and Gonzales heard its locking mechanism click as he settled back into his own seat, fear and shame spraying a wild neurochemical mix inside his brain Gonzales had never felt things like this before death down his spine and up his gut, up his throat and nose, as close as his skin; death with a bad smell burning, burning This button will analyze the text in the seed textbox adding whatever text exists in the "Write!" textbox below.
Write!
Start writing here! Tip: If you're on mobile, you can press down on each word suggestion to automagically type it on the writing window above.

Note: No results are given for words that do not exist in the analyzed test or words that do not match the first letters of other words in the analyzed text. These will be added by writing them on the "Write!" area, and clicking on the Analyze button.

How I use this tool:

I have a loose structure that generally goes like:
1. Scan the word lists for words combinations that may work as a good GM response without much interpretation. For example, if I’m looking to set up a scene, and I see a sequence like “a, rainy, morning” in the word lists, I’ll use that as is. Then I’ll look for another such phrase like “in, seattle”, etc, until I can’t find anything else. When these fit as a GM response, it's like a serendipitous accident, but that doesn’t happen very often. I've tried to make this easier to parse phrases by using commas to separate them.
2. If a quick scan does not turn up anything that works, I’ll go with whatever pre-conceived idea I had, but will try to construct it as much as possible from the words in the word lists, giving preference to the ones nearest to the top.
3. When the available words do not support my pre-thought ideas completely, I tweak those ideas as needed based on what words are available. This is where a bit of the magic happens for me, as I’m basically being led in a different direction by the tool. If I want this to happen more often, I self-impose limits on myself like “I’m only allowed to use the first three rows of results”, since the results list can be huge sometimes (depending on how big your seed text is).
4. If I don’t have any pre-conceived ideas, I look at the word list for ideas (not unlike step #1, but I don’t look for pre-generated combinations). I don’t completely limit myself to words in the word list all the time. I do allow myself to write what I want, but I put some limitations around it like “For every word I introduce from outside the suggested list, I have to use 3 words from the suggested list.” My basic drive is always: “Let the tool create or suggest coherent GM responses as much as possible with as little direction from me as possible (my direction being the main means of coherence), while also keeping the game moving.” From that, the process I outlined emerged, and may keep evolving. If you think this tool could be helpful to have in your toolbox, I encourage you to come up with your own process based on what you want out of solo roleplaying (and please share it!). If you have any suggestions on how this tool could be made better for you, please let me know in the comments, or drop by the Lone Wolf Roleplaying group. (Code is based on an example of n-gram extraction at SW).
Tip: You can keep the default seed text in the textbox at the top, or you can clear it and write your own (ctrl-a to select all the text, and then backspace or delete). The tool will use this along with what you write in the other box as a source of suggestions. The suggestions are mostly in the form of partial phrases, but you can pick and choose word for word. If you want the suggestions to look more random, I suggest you go to Cut Up Machine and paste your chosen seed text to randomize it. Then copy the result from there and replace it in the seed window at the top.