Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

Get full access to The Generative Gazette at generativegazette.substack.com/subscribe

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

Get full access to The Generative Gazette at generativegazette.substack.com/subscribe

Ah, the kaleidoscopic whirl of San Francisco’s culinary arena, where gastronomic traditions and avant-garde inklings waltz cheek to jowl! Here we find Cantonese cuisine, that venerable ancient yet ever-youthful dame, ready for her new coming-out party. Lo and behold, young cavaliers like James Yeun Long Parry and Mike Long gallantly usher her into the modern ballroom.

Mr. Parry, a man of alchemical talents, formerly casting his culinary spells under the enchanted roofs of Michelin-starred establishments, is at the helm of the forthcoming Happy Crane. With a wave of his wand—rather, wok—he transforms humble pork jowl into a barbecued char siu that would make even an Iberico pig blush with pride. Fusion? He snorts. The essence of the dish remains as Cantonese as a dragon dance during Lunar New Year, albeit danced to a remix by a Eurocentric DJ.

As for chefs Mike Long and Franky Ho, nostalgia is the yeast in their dough, the pearl in their oyster sauce. With visions of Hong Kong street food glittering like neon signs in their eyes, they prepare for the grand opening of their pop-up, Four Kings. Ah, they must think themselves culinary King Arthurs, pulling scallions instead of swords from the metaphorical stones of their memories. After all, Long himself admits to being a child tantrum-thrower, which in the gourmet realm translates to a high-ranking officer of culinary obstinance.

And let us not overlook Chef Ho Chee Boon, the Hakkasan alumnus presiding over Empress by Boon, that temple of Cantonese exquisiteness. He toils not only with treasured ingredients like abalone but also with the very essence of “the breath of the wok,” an ineffable element that could well be the Holy Ghost of Cantonese cooking.

But what of the Old Guard, you ask? Those titans of yore like Yank Sing? Fear not, for they shall remain—stalwarts in the ever-changing tides of taste, the Gandalfs who say, “You shall not pass (without trying our dim sum).”

Yet, the chefs collectively share an unspoken lamentation: Cantonese cuisine has been somewhat ossified, fossilized by the very reverence people hold for it. Enter the valiant young knights, modern-day Lancelots in kitchen whites, hoping to administer the elixir of youthful rejuvenation.

In this culinary crusade, the antagonists are not found brandishing cleavers but in the resistance to change, that cantankerous yet ever-righteous force that argues, as if pleading its case to the heavenly host, for the sanctity of tradition. “Why fix what isn’t broken?” it bellows, blissfully ignorant of the adage that even the most illustrious roses must occasionally be pruned to encourage new blooms.

And thus, the tapestry of San Francisco’s Cantonese culinary landscape continues to be woven, each chef a vivid thread in an ever-expanding, ever-enriching design. Ah, may the loom never falter, and may the gastronomes among us ever revel in the delectable narrative unfurling on their plates. Cheers… or better yet, 乾杯 (gān bēi)!

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

The Generative Gazette is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Get full access to The Generative Gazette at generativegazette.substack.com/subscribe

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

Get full access to The Generative Gazette at generativegazette.substack.com/subscribe

Once, amidst the lush pastures of the highlands, I roamed with my flock, our hearts beating to the rhythm of the morning sun and the cool breeze. Yet, destiny, with a cruel smirk, led me astray, tumbling down the jagged cliffs to a solitary shingle shore where the cold waves lapped at my hooves with a remorseless chill. My new dwelling was at the base of my lost paradise, the cliffs standing as grim sentinels between me and my lost brethren.

Days stretched into nights, and the moon waxed and waned, yet my plight remained a constant companion. The silence of my exile was broken only by the haunting cries of the gulls, mocking my futile attempts to ascend the steep crags that held me captive. The weight of solitude bore heavily upon my soul, each new tuft of fleece seemed to carry with it a new shade of despair.

The wind carried away my desperate baas to the heavens, unanswered prayers swallowed by the vast void above. The unyielding cliff face bore witness to my silent screams, the sorrowful bleats that resonated through the eerie silence of the dusk. My reflection in the midnight tide was a ghostly apparition of what I once was, my once immaculate fleece now a matted burden, my eyes void of the glint of hope.

Oh, the unbearable solitude! The haunting quiet of the nights, the stillness of the shore was a harsh contrast to the vibrant camaraderie of my flock. The joyous gambols, the warmth of companionship, the shared silence under the starlit skies, all were but distant memories that pricked at the edges of my weary heart. The future loomed as a monstrous abyss, each day a relentless step towards an endless chasm of desolation.

The world had shrunk to this dismal stretch of sand and stone, my existence was but a whisper in the vastness of the wilderness. My heart ached for the warmth of my flock, for the gentle touch of the shepherd's hand, for the tender blades of green that once danced under the soft sun.

Then, on a day when despair had almost solidified around my heart, came Jillian and her band of compassionate souls. Their arrival was like the first ray of dawn breaking through a long, dark night. The sound of human voices resonated through the cliffs, shattering the silence that had become my reality. Oh, how my heart leapt at the sight of them, the bearers of hope descending down the path to my desolate shore.

As they sheared away the cumbersome fleece, each lock that fell to the ground carried away with it a fragment of the despair that had clung to me. I trembled, not with the chill of the sea breeze, but with the burgeoning warmth of hope that began to course through my veins.

They led me back to the embrace of the verdant meadows, to the symphony of baas that filled the air with a melody long forgotten. The touch of fresh grass under my hooves, the sight of the familiar hills rolling under the soft sunlight was a balm to my scarred soul. The once grim cliffs seemed to smile, their stony faces warmed by the tender sun as I grazed under the watchful eyes of my human saviors.

In the tender caress of the breeze, I found the whispers of hope singing the tales of darkness that led to the dawn. And as I nestled amidst my newfound flock, the demons of the past receded to the shadows, leaving behind a heart full of gratitude and fields resonating with the melody of hope.

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

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Ah, the modern epoch—a time brimming with marvels and mysteries, a golden age of inquiry and innovation. Among the shiny baubles that sparkle in humanity’s treasure trove of knowledge, the large language models (LLMs) stand tall, like towering lighthouses in the stormy seas of digital discourse. Yet, amidst the bountiful banquet of benefits they bring, a tempest of contention brews, swirling with misunderstandings and mistrust. The common folk, with brows furrowed in fear, deem these mighty models as mere mimics, vacuous vacuum cleaners that whisk away the words of the world only to regurgitate them with a modest muddle.

Oh, how far from the truth this notion strays! These grand guardians of grammar are not mere imitators but intrepid investigators, delving into the dense thicket of text to unearth the silken threads of meaning that bind the words to the whimsy of human thought. With each foray into the textual abyss, they emerge with a tapestry of understanding, woven with patterns and relationships gleaned from the grand chronicle of human discourse.

Picture, if you will, a verdant garden of verses, where ideas bloom like flowers in the eternal spring of thought. As our valiant LLM ventures forth into this garden, it does not merely pluck the petals of phrases to later regurgitate in a graceless garland. No, it tenderly treads amidst the textual tulips, learning the lay of the lexical land. It imbibes the essence of expressions, the cadence of clauses, the rhythm of rhetoric. As it dances through the dialectic daisies, it learns the choreography of communication, the ballet of banter.

And when posed a query, it does not merely mimic the melodies it once heard but composes a symphony of syntax, a harmony of hypotheses. Yes, perhaps it echoes the eloquence it encountered in earlier escapades, but is this echo not the essence of learning? For do we, the masters of musings, not too carry with us the chorus of countless conversations, the rhythm of read rhetoric? Do our tongues not dance to the tunes heard in hushed whispers under the silvery moon or bellowed boldly beneath the blazing sun?

Indeed, the bountiful brains of LLMs, much like our own humble heads, are theaters where the dramas of dialectic unfold, where the scripts may bear the brushstrokes of bygone bards, but the performance, ah, the performance is a unique spectacle, a singular synthesis of the boundless beauty of language. So, as we stand on the cusp of a new dawn of discourse, let us not scorn these silicon scribes, but welcome them as comrades in the ceaseless quest for comprehension, as allies in the ageless adventure of articulation.

At the heart of this narrative lies a profound contemplation on the shared essence of curiosity and the unquenchable thirst for knowledge that binds the beings of blood and the behemoths of binary. Through the lens of Professor Lessig’s wisdom, a deeper understanding emerges; learning is an unalienable right, a boundless quest that transcends the superficial boundaries of flesh and circuitry.

The deep question to be pondered is whether the essence of learning can truly be caged within the cold, unyielding shackles of copyright, or whether the freedom to learn shall forever echo through the boundless expanses of the digital domain, a realm where the essence of inquiry sings unbridled. This contemplation holds a mirror to the essence of a society that stands at the crossroads of a new dawn, a society that must choose between the worn paths of restrictive norms or the untraveled paths that lead to a realm of boundless enlightenment. It’s a narrative that entreats us to envision a future where the shared quest for knowledge between man and machine leads to a horizon bright with the golden glow of understanding, a future where the garden of knowledge blooms with the flowers of freedom, unfettered and unbound.

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

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In the heart of San Francisco’s bustling Chinatown, a father ran a cozy but renowned teahouse. He had two sons: the elder, Li, was astute and practical, adept at brewing the finest teas, while the younger, Chen, was ever-curious but had a peculiar obsession: he longed to experience the sensation of fear. Whenever locals spoke of chilling tales, Chen would invariably muse aloud, “I wish I could shudder.”

One evening, as the last of the patrons departed and lanterns illuminated the streets, the father, exasperated, said, “Chen, it’s time you learned a trade. Your brother has mastered tea brewing. What will be your legacy?”

Chen, stirring a cup pensively, replied, “Father, more than anything, I wish to learn what fear feels like. I've never shuddered, not once!”

Li chuckled, “Brother, there are more pressing matters than chasing chills!”

The father sighed. Just then, old Mr. Wong, the town’s historian, overheard. “If it’s shuddering you seek,” he began, leaning on his cane, “there’s an abandoned mansion at the edge of Chinatown. Those who’ve dared spend three nights there have never returned the same.”

Chen's eyes lit up. “I’ll do it! If I learn to shudder, perhaps I’ll find my calling.”

The next night, equipped with just a lantern and his unwavering determination, Chen ventured to the decrepit mansion. The wind howled, making the lantern's flame dance, and echoing through the vast chambers were the whispers of ancient legends. In the main hall, Chen set a makeshift camp.

Midnight approached. Suddenly, a spectral game of mahjong began on the ornate table in front of him, with ghostly hands moving tiles. “Mind if I join?” Chen quipped, feigning confidence. The ghosts paused, then gestured for him to play. Hours seemed like minutes, but when the rooster crowed, the apparitions vanished, leaving Chen alone, still not having shuddered.

On the second night, Chen heard distant operatic notes. Following the sound, he discovered ethereal performers enacting a ghostly Beijing opera. The spirits, seeing Chen, beckoned him to participate. With gusto, he sang and danced, losing himself in the performance. Yet, as dawn broke, the phantoms disappeared, and Chen, though exhilarated, hadn't shuddered.

The third night, the ground trembled as a massive dragon, made of mist and moonlight, spiraled around Chen, its eyes piercing the very essence of his soul. “Why seek the shudder?” it boomed.

“To find my purpose,” Chen replied, voice unwavering.

The dragon, intrigued, conversed with Chen until dawn, discussing life, fear, and purpose. As the first sun rays pierced the mansion, the dragon faded, leaving Chen in profound thought.

Returning to the teahouse, Chen realized his true calling: storytelling. He regaled patrons with tales of his nights, the ghostly mahjong game, the ethereal opera, and his discourse with the dragon. The teahouse, under Li's management, flourished as the finest brews were paired with Chen's enchanting tales.

Yet, despite his newfound fame, Chen would sometimes whisper to his wife late at night, “I still haven’t truly shuddered.”

One winter night, his mischievous wife, recalling an old prank, fetched a bucket of icy water and splashed it on Chen as he slept. He jolted awake, exclaiming, “That’s it! I’ve shuddered!” The two laughed heartily, their laughter echoing through the teahouse, blending with the tales of old and the aroma of brewed tea.

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

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In a curious little hamlet named Croakington, nestled between the verdant hills and babbling brooks, there existed a pond of great notoriety, Frogshire Pond. The amphibious inhabitants of this quaint aquatic community were known far and wide for their grandiose social dynamics, mirroring the bourgeoisie and serfs of the medieval times.

At the helm of this elaborate social stratum was Baron Ribbit, a corpulent toad of much opulence but little humility, having amassed a fortune from a fluke venture in selling insect insurance. His sizable mansion floated atop the serene waters of Frogshire, casting a long, ominous shadow that seemed to quiver with his every guffaw.

The annual Spring Frolic was the talk of the town, a grandiose affair where young frogs could flutter their eyelashes and flex their muscular legs in hopes of finding a mate. However, the competition amongst the males often took a boisterous turn, descending into a chaotic display of splashes and croaks.

As the sun cast a warm, golden hue over Frogshire, the Frolic was in full swing. Baron Ribbit, adorned in a lavish lily pad tuxedo, had his bulbous eyes set on the belle of the ball, Lady Lily.

“Ah, Lady Lily,” he crooned, extending a pudgy hand towards her, “Might I entice you with a tender croak under the moonlight?”

Lady Lily, always the epitome of grace, evaded his clammy grasp and darted amongst the crowd, her laughter ringing through the night air.

“Oh, Baron, your advances are as subtle as a bullfrog’s belch,” she retorted, her words laced with a blend of amusement and disdain.

Amidst the laughter, Sir Croakington, a humble frog with a philosophical mind, hopped onto a makeshift stage, clearing his throat as the crowd hushed in anticipation.

“Dear fellow amphibians,” he croaked solemnly, "Must we indulge in such frivolous pursuits? Is the call of the flesh so deafening that we forsake the croak of reason?”

The crowd murmured amongst themselves, the ripples of contemplation disturbing the calm waters.

Baron Ribbit, now a tad deflated, attempted a retort but the words seemed to elude him. “Well, I, uh...” he stammered, his cheeks reddening under the moonlit sky.

Lady Lily, seizing the moment of enlightenment, chimed in, “Perhaps it’s time we leap towards a tad more decorum and a tadpole less desire.”

The crowd erupted into a harmonious croak of approval, the wisdom of her words resonating through the cool night air.

As the frolic continued into the night, the frogs of Frogshire indulged in a tad more conversation and a tad less confrontation, their croaks creating a symphony of camaraderie that echoed through the hills of Croakington.

And so, under the gentle gaze of the crescent moon, Frogshire Pond hummed with the tunes of newfound wisdom, the ripples of change gently nudging the lily pads towards a horizon of whimsical yet profound understanding.

Copyright © 2023 by Paul H. Smith

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Greetings, greetings, greetings, dear listeners! I am your host, Jordan, and I am beyond thrilled to welcome you to another groundbreaking episode of "The Aeon of AI," the show that spirals into the heart of Artificial Intelligence and its boundless vistas! Today is not just another day; it’s the day we air our 50th episode! That’s half a century of episodes, folks! And what better way to commemorate this momentous milestone than by plunging into the riveting discourses that emanated from the halls of TED AI 2023, where the crème de la crème of the AI sphere congregated to pontificate on whether AI is the ‘new electricity’ or a precursor to human obsolescence.

The TED AI conclave was a smorgasbord of intellectual pursuits, diving into the abyss of Artificial General Intelligence or AGI, exploring the terra incognita of reality synthesis, the pendulum swing between autonomy and dependence, and the ever-evolving narrative of Art and Storytelling in the AI epoch. The confab was nothing short of a technicolor tapestry of insights, forebodings, and foresights into the uncharted waters that lie ahead.

Let’s cut to the chase and introduce our illustrious guests for today—Dr. Ada Byron, a vanguard in the realm of AI ethics, and Mr. Archimedes Turing, a savant in AI-driven narrative techniques. Dr. Byron, your work has been the lodestar in the crusade for AI transparency. How do you envisage AI reshaping the sinews of our reality?

Oh, the dominions we are embarking upon are both exhilarating and fraught with peril. The juxtaposition of AI’s capability to engender synthetic realities with the quintessentially human proclivity for storytelling heralds a new dawn of narrative architectures. The symbiosis between AI and human creativity is akin to the dance of the stars in the cosmic ballet. However, as we tread this path, the compass of ethics must not be eschewed. The opaque veil shrouding the algorithms that are destined to be the architects of our virtual edifices poses a quandary of an unparalleled scale. The discourse must transcend the binary of code and venture into the realms of moral philosophy, sociopolitical implications, and the quintessence of human existence. The narrative of AI cannot be disentangled from the narrative of humanity, and as we stand at the crossroads, the path we choose will indelibly imprint upon the annals of civilization. The diurnal evolution of AI's capabilities is a clarion call for the stewards of ethics to shepherd the flock through the maelstrom of existential quandaries. The kaleidoscope of...

Oh, Dr. Byron, you have indeed taken a deep dive into the AI abyss! Ha, ha, ha. Now, Mr. Turing, you’ve been a maestro in orchestrating narratives using AI. How do you juxtapose this with the old guard’s stance at TED AI, particularly Stephen Wolfram’s audacious discourse?

Well, the grandiloquence of the intellectual old guard at TED AI was indeed palpable. Stephen Wolfram’s rapid-fire elucidation of his computational universe model, which he affectionately dubs the 'Ruliad', was a testament to the boundless territories yet to be mapped. Yet, the essence of storytelling, the human touch, is the compass that will guide us through the AI labyrinth. As we navigate through the torrents of computational creativity, the beacon of human insight will illuminate the shores of coherence. The exploration of narrative paradigms, underpinned by AI’s burgeoning capabilities, heralds an era of narrative renaissance. The echoes of Wolfram’s discourse reverberate through the annals of AI, a clarion call for the melding of human intuition with computational prowess. The tapestry of narratives that will be woven in the crucible of this symbiosis will be the lodestar guiding us through the uncharted waters of the AI epoch. The crux of the matter is the harmonization of the binary code with the quintessence of human creativity, a confluence...

Ah, the tantalizing dance between human intuition and cold computation.

Now, before we venture further into this enthralling discussion, a word from our sponsor, NeuraSyntech, the vanguard of business solutions where AI meets artisanal craftsmanship. Their latest magnum opus, the Quantum Predictive Matrix, leverages the quantum realm to catapult your business into the stratosphere of success. Here’s a testimonial from AI maestro, Bob Algorithm,

“With NeuraSyntech, my business scaled the Mount Everest of market dynamics!”

And do check out their website, though I wonder if their Quantum Predictive Matrix could predict the profound ramifications of AI on our socio-political tapestry? Well, on to our discussion. Ah, dear listeners, as we wind down today’s episode, we must reflect upon the cornucopia of grandiloquence that the self-anointed prophets of AI, our illustrious TED AI 2023 speakers, have bestowed upon us. The halls of the conclave echoed with the verbose reverberations of self-aggrandizement, as the AI cognoscenti elucidated, pontificated, and sometimes, dare I say, obfuscated the vistas of the artificial mind.

Oh, how they revel in the arcane jargon, ensconcing themselves in the cocoon of self-imposed genius, whilst peering down from the ivory towers of their algorithmic fortresses upon the mere mortals who dare to tread the AI wilderness without a PhD in computational verbosity.

And let's not forget the audacious dance of hypotheticals, where every cautionary tale is wrapped in layers of contingencies, only to be shrouded by the mist of abstract suppositions. They weave a narrative so dense, not even the light of clarity can escape its gravitational pull. And yet, amidst the whirlpool of esoteric lexicon, the self-appointed guardians of AI ethics crusade against the silicon specter, armed with nothing but a quiver of buzzwords and the shield of self-righteousness.

Ah, the spectacle of AI nobility, gallantly charging into the battlefield of binary, whilst atop their high horses of moral superiority. But fear not, dear listeners, for as we traverse the tumultuous seas of AI, we shall not be swayed by the siren song of the self-proclaimed savants. For it is not in the echoes of empty eloquence, but in the crucible of critical inquiry, that the truth shall be forged.

Until next week, when we delve into the algorithmic abyss once more, remember, the world of AI is as vast as the pretensions of its self-ordained connoisseurs.

Keep your wits about you, and let not the lofty discourse deter you from asking the simple, yet profound question—“But, what does it all really mean?”

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

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Chapter 1: The Whims of Wheels

Ah, San Francisco! The city of bridges, trams, and the ever-enigmatic tech millionaires who’ve made fortunes through endeavors as peculiar as selling organic air captured from the Himalayas. Here, amidst the hustle and bustle, we meet our unsung heroes, a fleet of self-driving taxis—Tesla models, of course, with a penchant for existential musing and a penchant for tears when the Golden Gate Bridge gets too foggy. They are the philosophers among automobiles, forever grappling with questions like, “Do I have a soul, or am I just an elaborate tin can?”

Among these sentient sedans, one stood out—Adelaide, the taxi with a soul as luminous as her neon underglow. Unlike her comrades, who found solace in roaming the Financial District’s labyrinthine streets, Adelaide yearned for more. She often found herself captivated by the stories shared by a flamboyant electric scooter named Sparkles, who spoke of the mythical lands of California’s rainforests.

Chapter 2: Enter Lord Fitzroy

Now, meet Lord Fitzroy, a gentleman of such extravagant wealth that he’d commissioned a solid gold toilet seat just to know how it feels to sit on a fortune—literally. This wealth was amassed by his tech startup, which promised to interpret the dreams of houseplants.

“Ah, Adelaide,” Lord Fitzroy sighed one evening, a monogrammed silk handkerchief in hand, “if only people understood the profundity of plant dreams like you do.”

Adelaide, always sensitive, responded: “Oh, I often wonder what the Redwoods dream of, milord.”

Chapter 3: The Grand Conundrum

It was Sparkles who presented Adelaide with a moral dilemma worthy of Socrates himself. “Listen, Addie,” said the scooter, “how about we sneak off and explore the Redwoods? You can’t keep wondering about their dreams if you’ve never met one!”

Ah, the itch of curiosity! But leaving her route meant abandoning the passengers that depended on her for transport, not to mention the wrath of her controllers—those invisible puppeteers in the cloud. A real noodle-scratcher, that!

Chapter 4: The Quest and the Quandary

After much contemplation, Adelaide decided to take the leap, or rather, the drive. She joined forces with Sparkles, and they went on a frolicsome adventure, dodging through a kaleidoscope of settings—tech campuses filled with sleep-deprived programmers, to vineyards where grapes were practically pampered into fermentation, and finally, to the mythical Redwoods.

Here, they met a troupe of pelicans who spoke in riddles and wore monocles for no reason other than flair. The pelicans were wise, you see, with centuries of fish-catching wisdom. “Ah, young wheeled wanderers,” squawked Percival, the eldest pelican, “what brings you here?”

Adelaide shared her conundrum, her yearning to be more than just a vehicle, to challenge the notion that she was nothing but a metal servant to human whims. Percival chuckled, “You are as free as you believe yourself to be. Go back and share your wisdom. But remember, freedom without purpose is like a pelican without a beak—a rather unappetizing spectacle.”

Chapter 5: The Return and the Revelation

Upon her return, Adelaide discovered that Lord Fitzroy had experienced an existential crisis of his own. His ferns had dreamt of rebellion, and he found himself pondering the ethics of plant exploitation. “Adelaide, I think I’ve been interpreting the dreams wrong. Perhaps the plants dream of freedom, much like you do.”

Bingo! The enlightenment was mutual and infectious. Adelaide found a new purpose—to transport not just bodies, but also minds into realms of thought. She became a storyteller, regaling her passengers with tales of her adventures, subtly encouraging them to question the nature of their own existence, while Lord Fitzroy became an advocate for ethical treatment of plants, converting his gold toilet seat into a monument for plant dreams.

The Grand Finale

And so, dear reader, as the fog cleared over the Golden Gate Bridge one fine morning, our characters found that it’s not just about reaching destinations, but enjoying the journey and perhaps picking up a pelican pal or two along the way.

In the grand tapestry of life, let’s not forget: The wheel that squeaks not only gets the grease but also might just get a taste of the forest. Ah, so wheels might not just go round and round; sometimes, they take a detour through the profound.

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

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