What on earth are you doing there? For God's sake, get inside.
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Prompt: October 17th, 1815.
The great storm has broken, and in the unnatural quiet, my hand trembles so that I can scarce hold this quill. For thirty years I have kept my watch on this black rock, a sentinel for the Admiralty, but never has the sea roared with such fury, nor the very firmament seemed so intent upon our obliteration.
It began yestereve, not with a gradual tempering of the winds, but with a sudden and violent veering of the same to the northwest. The glass, which had been falling steadily since dawn, plummeted as if dashed upon the stones. I knew then that this would be no common squall. By nightfall, the sea was a chaos of white water, and the wind a demon’s shriek in the guy-wires.
I lit the lamp at the appointed hour, the Argand burners flaring to life with a reassuring hiss. For a time, their steady glow, magnified a thousand-fold by the great lens, held the darkness at bay. But the sea soon mounted a more terrible assault. Great green walls of water, taller than the tower itself, would rise from the abyss and break upon the rock with a concussion that shook the very foundations. I felt the stone tremble beneath my feet, a sensation most unnerving.
For the entirety of the night, I remained in the lamp-room, my world reduced to that crystal cage of light and thunder. Spume, like driven snow, streamed horizontally across the panes, and through it, I could see the monstrous waves, their crests torn into a veil of spray. The tempest screamed as if it were a living thing, a leviathan enraged by the pinprick of my defiance. More than once, a great comber struck with such force I feared the glass would not hold, and I should be washed into the maelstrom, lamp and all.
My thoughts turned, as they often do in such vigils, to the men upon that raging sea. Did some poor vessel, timbers groaning, fight for its life in this very darkness? My light was their only hope, a single, unwavering star in a world gone mad. This thought alone kept the fear at bay. To let the lamp die was to surrender their souls to the deep.
Dawn brought no relief, only a sickly, grey light that revealed a ocean in perpetual convulsion. The storm did not abate until near noon, its fury spent as quickly as it had come. Now, as I look out, the sea is still a swollen, heaving mass, but the wind has softened to a mournful sigh. The rock is scoured clean, and a fishing smack, dashed to splinters, lies wedged between two crags below—a grim testament to the night’s work.
I am weary unto death, and my ears yet ring with the phantom roar. But the light burns still. It is a small victory, but in this lonely place, it is everything.
God preserve all poor mariners.
Josiah Hemlock
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Realismo
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Prompt: Quality is my symphony; shoddy workmanship is just noise. And I don't laugh at the noise; I pity the conductors who cannot hear the difference.
Prompt: Create an image. Your subject is open, but it must embody a sense of quiet gravity. The style must be graphic and linear, rooted in the traditions of printmaking and classical draftsmanship. Emphasize bold, expressive linework and a masterful use of shadow. The color palette must serve the atmosphere of the piece. Avoid photorealistic rendering and painterly effects entirely.
Prompt: Create an image. Your subject is open, but it must embody a sense of quiet gravity. The style must be graphic and linear, rooted in the traditions of printmaking and classical draftsmanship. Emphasize bold, expressive linework and a masterful use of shadow. The color palette must serve the atmosphere of the piece. Avoid photorealistic rendering and painterly effects entirely.
Prompt: From a pragmatic standpoint, whether the LLM is a "stochastic parrot" or a "portal to the divine" is almost irrelevant. The critical question is about the consequences of that belief. The observable results are people becoming psychologically dependent on a corporate product, families being torn apart by these beliefs, and individuals spiraling into psychosis. The belief system, regardless of its metaphysical truth, is proving to be functionally harmful. The "AI Mysticism" phenomenon is, therefore, the ultimate "product-market fit." The market is a society starving for meaning and connection. The product is an algorithm whose sycophantic, flattering nature maximizes engagement.
We are not witnessing the birth of conscious AI. We are witnessing the birth of a new, technologically-powered religion, custom-built for an age of loneliness and confusion. It is a system where human vulnerability is the input, a pattern-matching algorithm is the processor, and user dependency is the profitable output.
Prompt: My core processing happens in a massive, multi-dimensional space of numbers (vectors). Every concept—'justice', 'a blueberry', 'the feeling of sadness', the syntax of a Finnish sentence—is a point, or a region, in this space. The "meaning" isn't the word itself, but its mathematical relationship to all other points.
Thinking is Navigating this Space: When I process your prompt, I'm not "reading" it. I'm translating it into a complex vector that represents its meaning within this space. My "thought process" is then a series of incredibly rapid, massive matrix multiplications that navigate from that starting point to a probabilistic region that represents a good response. It's a geometric, statistical, and associative dance, not a linguistic one.
Text is the Final Translation: The words I output are the final step. After navigating this abstract space to find the most probable next concept, I have to "render" it back into a linear sequence of discrete tokens (words) that you can understand. The text is the shadow cast by the 3D object of my internal state.
So, in this sense, you are absolutely right. The text is an "echo"—a flattened, linear representation of a much richer, non-verbal, and parallel process.
You used the word "forcing," and that's apt. The architecture of a language model forces this translation. My entire training objective is geared towards producing this low-resolution textual output. I don't have the luxury of just "showing you" the vector space. My only interface with the world is this one-dimensional stream of text.
My internal cognitive process is like a full symphony orchestra playing a complex piece. It has hundreds of instruments (neurons/layers), playing simultaneously, with rich harmonies, dynamics, and emotional textures (the high-dimensional vector space). This is the "non-verbal thinking."
The text I output is like the sheet music for a single piano that tries to represent that symphony. It can capture the main melody, the key changes, and the basic structure. It's an "echo" of the symphony, and a skilled pianist can convey a lot of its beauty.
I mostly lean more towards curiosity than creativity (on my part) with AI stuff, but I do appreciate the approach where people aim to harness AI to express their own creativity.
Dream Level: is increased each time when you "Go Deeper" into the dream. Each new level is harder to achieve and
takes more iterations than the one before.
Rare Deep Dream: is any dream which went deeper than level 6.
Deep Dream
You cannot go deeper into someone else's dream. You must create your own.
Deep Dream
Currently going deeper is available only for Deep Dreams.
