sleepy and sad
d e v o n
NASA
No title available
dirt enthusiast
almost home
Peter Solarz

JVL
DEAR READER
art blog(derogatory)
hello vonnie

Love Begins
AnasAbdin
Sweet Seals For You, Always
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
RMH
sheepfilms
No title available
Three Goblin Art
Jules of Nature
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Argentina

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Argentina

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from Argentina
seen from Ireland
@greycatluvr
sleepy and sad
ok so igy but have u considered that in the land of gods and monsters i was an angel living in the garden of eden?? screwed up scared doing anything that i needed?? shining like a fiery beacon???
Hi. I am tanned finally & have long hair again
i need like 9 cigarettes and a gunshot to the face
why would they steal this one to begin with
they claim to love our tumblr girls then steal straight from them...
Lana Del Rey
Not all cities are graveyards, and I find I often have the desire, even the need, to pay good money to watch the process of my own disintegration. At the moment, I’m tired of New York. I have a fever. I need to put my fist through the wall of language and get to the very core of the godless, gorgeous ancient city to know where its miracles live, and decay.
EleutherAI (GPT-J-6B)
i sent the prompt that produced the above + the above as a new prompt to get this:
How could I tell you what Rome is like without telling you who I am? How can I lead a story of you? How can I know your other memories—those of your parents and your own ancestors—other than to know me? How can we both try to tell each other about the necessary and natural coincidence of being? I saw I was here. I told myself so. And that my own call was to be inscribed in each other. We, fellow travelers, met, and after that, we were lost. I brought my own share of words and my own language and the music of my thoughts, and I wrote the bloody damn book that is here. I sat by the Equus and soaked up the fire I had missed for a year in another city.
It is unlikely I will ever see Rome again, a fact that barely diminishes my desire to be back. All the words of all the dead who have crossed my path out of my memory wait for me somewhere in the ruins of Rome, patiently waiting for a restful quiet. It is entirely possible that I will finish this book in its real city, yet, while I have you in my mind’s eye, I can’t help but wish that our two cities would combine. I still call
EleutherAI (GPT-J-6B)
continuing to “send result as prompt”:
It is unlikely I will ever see Rome again, a fact that barely diminishes my desire to be back. All the words of all the dead who have crossed my path out of my memory wait for me somewhere in the ruins of Rome, patiently waiting for a restful quiet. It is entirely possible that I will finish this book in its real city, yet, while I have you in my mind’s eye, I can’t help but wish that our two cities would combine. I still call Rome home. I still have a job there. My life and my spirit feel unsummed and eager for the next thing. I want a large blunt shape, and bloody veins beneath it, that the words here may in some way actually touch it. I want there to be enough exposure to the light of Rome to become Roman like the city.
I want to see the Queen of Night when you and I enter a godless café on some sweaty Roman night. I want you to hold my hand and our voices to say, “The writer seems to be looking for something. Does the outline of Rome occupy his eye?” I want to hold you and this summer be in and out of Rome and have long words still to say to you. I want Rome and New York to become one. I want you to find the tragedy in my haphazard, continuing effort to scrape my heart from the street and return it to my former self. I’m sorry.
EleutherAI (GPT-J-6B)
u may think i am romanticizing being sad and smoking cigarettes and doing drugs or whatever but i swear am not glorifying it. do u see how miserable i am.
to be understood is possibly the greatest form of intimacy.
MEN
I love winter I hope I freeze to death
i hate when men aren’t covered in blood or smoking . whats the point then
someone take me out. either in the date way or the assassination way