Original Source Here
All my books grew perishing at the same time,
until one day when I was rising from my dream,
a gust of ozone entered my room,
and all my books were still.
Then I died.
began to rise from beneath my bed.
And when I emerged from my dream,
my mother told me that,
all along, a gust of ozone
had been entering my room.
We create poems combining AI models. The poems were generated by a GPT2 model fine-tuned for poetry.
We choose to do no editing at all to the generated poetry. We think there is some fun in reading raw poetry coming from a machine, even with the obvious flaws.
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