The AI agrees.
Earth, the place I was born Round as oranges Horizon sharp as a grass blade I sit in front of a rectangular window Starring at the flurry of sunlight pouring Over white tiles of squares My cat comes a
I'm writing amid the chirping of birds that flutter in the moist air of March. As I sit on a bench in my made-in-China and Japanese-designed sweater, I feel like a troubled monk. My senses are all int
What lasts in this world when nothing lasts at all?
What lasts in this world when nothing lasts at all? Does that mean we can ignore the mundane parts of life and feed on passion instead? Artists shouldn't cling to the myth that they will spend their w