Babypants

Thanks, but he skunked Sofia in this game. Hence "The Mouse That Roared."

Food and energy, little else. China has been relying heavily on a loophole called the de minimis exemption to flood our marketplace with cheap products via Ali Baba, Shein, and Temu. This exemption has now been closed for both Hong Kong and the PRC, and this is going to have a massive downstream impact on e-commerce in addition to making it a lot easier for Customs to intercept illegal drugs in transit. In politics, it helps to have a long memory. Back in the late 80s and early 90s, when the Democrats were beholden to Big Labor, people like Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi loved tariffs and ranted and raved against free trade. But now the Democrats are a wholly owned subsidiary of the Wall Street hedge funds, right alongside what is laughingly called the Republican party. Collectively they are The Establishment, and I for one am comforted to have a businessman in the White House who is equally loathed by Schumer and McConnell. And yes, I twice voted for Ross Perot; indeed, I voted third party six presidential elections in a row.

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THE MOUSE THAT ROARED “Please.” Ian gestured at one of the two empty chairs. “And if your friend would like to join us, she's welcome.” “Thank you, Professor; that's most kind of you.” “Please, call me Ian.” “Jennifer.” “And this is my soon to be mother-in-law, Doctor Sofia Haikonnen.” “Ah!” Jennifer's smile was radiant. “So that's why you call her 'Mommy'.” “You heard us?” Sophia's plan publicly to embarrass Ian was going better than she had hoped. And Jennifer's reaction gave her all sorts of ideas for how to proceed with Bob's training as her submissive. “Oh, yes … and I would be happy to do his next diaper check. How do you go about it?” “Oh, same as with any toddler; I just loosen his trousers enough to let my fingers do the walking.” This time, Jennifer laughed outright. Ian and Sophia were highly amusing, even outrageous. She liked them both. “Have we met?” Ian had an eye for buxom blondes, and couldn't place her. “No. I saw you on television several times on Thursday … you and those sorority girls of yours. They're here, by the way … no doubt looking for something outrageous to wear to the Delta kegger, or maybe just to conceal their diapers.” “They're here? What, all of them?” Ian was flabbergasted. He had expected Bernice to ground the whole house. “Crawling all over the mall. But I just saw Cindy and her mom in Dream Weaver a few minutes ago, with Kim and Mel. There was another girl with them, tall and thin, but I don't know her.” “Tippi Bjornsen would be my guess,” Ian mused. “Your caregiver?” Sophia's eyes it up. “One and the same,” Ian conceded. “You have a sorority girl … what … changing your diapers?” Jennifer was astonished. “Yeah, 'fraid so,” Ian conceded. “Ian was badly wounded in his last engagement, and there's still a shell fragment lodged in his spinal cord. Changing his diaper is something that he can't safely do for himself, so my daughter has arranged to have him receive care when he's on campus.” Sophia hastened to correct a misunderstanding that would cast her daughter in a bad light. She was having fun with Ian, but there were limits to how far she was willing to go. Remembering what Ian had said to the frat boys when he got off the bus that brought the girls home from jail … his offhand comment about R&R … Jennifer's hand flew up to cover her mouth. Her mistake was obvious, and deeply embarrassing. She looked at Ian with equal parts pity and admiration. “So, how do you know my daughters?” Sensing Jennifer's discomfort, once again Ian was quick to change the subject. “Oh, I'm a Kappa … class of sixty-six. I'm very active in our chapter, and I'm proud to say that I know most of the girls on Fraternity Row at sight.” “Now, there's a coincidence,” Ian chuckled. “My closest friends are the Freemans, and Elaine is not only a Kappa but also a member of the national board. She used her powers of persuasion to move two of your girls over to ZAP. You'll be happy to know that they've settled in nicely.” “Jackknife and Slasher,” Jennifer laughed. “And you know Elaine? My God, how small the world has become! I met her at a function in DC several years ago. This is amazing!” “Terri, you've got to join us,” Jennifer called out as she turned around. “Ian is best friends with Elaine Freeman!” “Terri's also a Kappa,” Jennifer whispered; “she was a year behind me.” “Congratulations, Professor, on your appointment to the Panhellenic Council.” “You know about that?” Teresa Bradley was another stunning blonde, although not as well endowed as her companion. “Oh, Professor,” Terri laughed, “by now there won't be a sorority chapter anywhere in the country that's out of the loop. Our grapevine is a well oiled machine! Has Karen Walsh brought you up to speed?” “She's the current Council president,” Jennifer explained to Sofia. She often felt ignored when attending dinner parties with her husband's colleagues, and she tried hard not to treat others similarly. “Other than mandatory attendance at keggers and toga parties, not a whole lot.” Ian's stoic expression didn't change, not even when all three women laughed loud enough to cause heads to turn yet again. Spotting some of the college girls looking up, he felt like he was really on a roll. “Seriously,” he went on, "I gather that they need help with fundraising, and expect me to keep the Dean off their backs. On both counts, it would help if they would stop sparking riots and getting themselves arrested. Don't get me wrong; I love Cindy Carlson, but she is driving me crazy!” “Speaking of the devil.” Jennifer was looking over Ian's shoulder, causing him to turn around. “Mom, look! There's our new Dad!” Cindy was waving excitedly, and she rushed forward with Kim, Tippi and Mel in hot pursuit. Emily Carlson was left to bring up the rear. Ian looked around, but there were no larger tables available, so he began scrambling to grab empty chairs wherever he could find them. Seconds later, Mel and Kim pulled a nearby table alongside, and suddenly Ian found himself surrounded by eight attractive women, four of them in bulky diapers that couldn't be missed by anyone who even glanced their way. For the first time since Sophia had dragged him into the mall, Ian felt like he was hidden from view. “Dad, this is Emily, my Mom. Gosh, I'm surprised to find you here. Did Mom tell you that we'd be here, and ask you to come along and keep us out of trouble?” “Mommy, Cindy is referring to ZAP's house manager and my adoptive parent, Bernice Miller. Everyone, this is my mother-in-law, Sophia, whom I shall henceforth address as 'Mommy' because this conversation is beginning to feel a lot like a remake of Abbott and Costello.” “Who,” Cindy asked. “That's right,” Ian nodded. “Who's on first.” “First what?” “First base. Who's on first.” “Why are you asking me, Dad,” Cindy replied with a perfectly straight face. “I don't know who's on first ...” “Stop it,” Emily barked. People at several of the other tables were clapping, and Ian's companions were laughing so hard that some of them were tearing up. Ian gave Cindy a hug, and whispered that he would explain later. But he wondered if he was holding the next Gracie Allen in his arms. Cindy was a natural who only needed the right straight man to take the comic world by storm. “Gotcha,” Cindy crowed. “Seriously, Dad, everyone knows Abbott and Costello. They're the best!” “Holy Cow!” Ian rocked back on his heels. “Cindy, that's incredible! You really had me going there!” “Next stop, Hollywood,” Cindy crowed. “This morning, a producer called from American Bandstand. They want me to do the Cindy Shuffle on the air!” She broke into an impromptu version that delighted a number of men walking around the food court. “Do you want me to put in a good word with Dick Clark?” “You know Dick Clark?” Jennifer didn't know whether to take Ian seriously or not. “Met him once in Viet Nam. He was doing a USO tour up in the Highlands, and Charlie tried to crash the party. My men got seriously pissed because they thought they would miss the Playboy bunnies. There was a brief pause while we took care of business, and then a good time was had by all. Dick and I chatted for a bit after the show.” “Sarah warned me about this,” Sophia mused. “All the places you've been and the things that you've done. You never talk about them, but occasionally you let something slip, like palling around with Dick Clark in Viet Nam.” “And then there's my Mafia pals,” Ian smiled. “Cindy, forget the Bandstand. I'll make a few phone calls, and then we'll head out to Vegas. We'll start with a lounge show at one of the hotels on the Strip, and then work our way up from there … Grady and Carlson. We'll resurrect vaudeville from the dead!” “Ian, stop it!” Emily knew just how gullible her daughter could be. “There's a lot of empty space in Cindy's skull, and you're filling it with dangerous ideas. Now, both of you, sit down!” The two comics hastened to obey, but a moment later Cindy was back on her feet. “They know about the Cindy Shuffle, but they don't know about the shimmy shake! Gran taught me, and I'm good!” Cindy began to move her shoulders and her hips, her whole upper body gyrating to music that only she could hear. “I did the shimmy when I was starring in our school production of Scheherazade a couple of years ago. If I can figure out a way to tie them together, the sky's the limit!” “How's your diaper holding up, Dear?” Emily was determined to bring her daughter back down to earth. “And Ian, what about yours?” “I changed him a few minutes ago in the maternity shop,” Sophia interjected. “The maternity shop? Is your daughter expecting?” “Not yet, but we're hoping that will change soon. No, Sarah wanted me to buy Ian some new diapers-- something less bulky.” Sofia reached under the table, and pulled one of the shopping bags out. She took a diaper off the top of the stack, and laid it on the table. “May I,” Tippi politely asked as she reached out to feel the material. “Sarah wants me to be his caregiver on campus. This is a lot lighter.” She opened the diaper, trying to get a sense of how much it would hold. “How often will I need to change him?” “Roughly every two hours. On his breast milk diet, he poops as frequently as a newborn, and it has pretty much the same texture.” Sofia reached into her purse, and pulled out Ian's last bottle to show the others. Cindy and her friends took it in stride, but Emily, Terri and Jennifer stared at the bottle in open disbelief. “They breast feed you,” Terri somehow managed to squeal. “Not yet, but we're all keeping our fingers crossed. Ah, but you don't know ...” Ian could see the consternation on all three faces. “I'm polyamorous, and Sarah is generous enough to share me with the four other women that I've fallen in love with this month. Three of them also want to have babies, so if things work out, we'll be drowning in breast milk. I'm getting a head start-- this stuff is definitely an acquired taste-- but we all expect to end up there. It's healthy, but just as importantly, it takes a potential source of jealousy off the table. In a commune like ours, that's important.” Ian stole a glance at Sofia. Fifteen love … “You're living under the same roof with five women, and sleeping with all of them?” Jennifer was not judgmental by nature, and being married to a prominent surgeon required her to behave as impeccably as she dressed, but at the moment she was well off the fairway, deep in the rough. “There are others who would like to join us, but I don't think I could cope with the stress.” Thirty love ... “Besides, I have all these daughters to look after, and at the moment it feels like I'm failing them.” “That's not true,” Tippi hissed. “Not even remotely true. You kept us out of jail … you kept us from tearing the house apart. We're failing you … we're the ones who need to do better.” “Here, here.” There was no missing the conviction in Tippi's voice, and Emily was thankful that it was one of her younger sisters who had spoken up in Ian's defense. “You saved the house, Ian, and all of us owe you a debt that can never be fully repaid.” “If you'd like to make a down payment, I could use some family recipes.” Emily looked at Sophia, hoping that she knew what this was all about, but Sophia was obviously just as puzzled as everyone else in the group. “Okay, Ian, I'll bite.” Emily was sure that she was being set up, but she wanted to hear the punch line. “Why do you need family recipes?” “For the cookbook I'm writing.” Ian had donned his poker face-- the one he perfected during briefings for the idiots who periodically summoned him to Saigon. Staff officers didn't get out very much, and he suspected that what they knew about the war came largely from Walter Cronkite. “You're writing a cookbook?” “Ian's cooking tonight,” Sophia warned, “for roughly twenty people, We're doing Greek.” “Yes. I'm thinking of calling it Cooking With Breast Milk ...” Cindy hooted, and started drumming the tabletop. “When we get home, I'm going to whip up some breast milk yogurt, then convert it into tzatziki. It will go well with the roast lamb. Tomorrow morning, I'll treat everyone to breast milk biscuits and pancakes, and for dinner I'm thinking fettucini a la breast milk.” Forty love ... "That explains your new hair styles,” Ian went on, abruptly changing the subject. “It's straight out of the twenties, right along with the shimmy. Costumes?” Ian was pointing at one of the garment bags draped over Kimberly's left arm, but he had noted that each of the girls was carrying an identical bag from a shop called Yesterday's News. Kim jumped up, and excitedly opened the bag. She pulled out her flapper dress, and held it up to her shoulders. “For the party tonight, and if it goes well, maybe help us cut the line to get into Moby's. What do you think, Dad?” “Can you do the Charleston?” “Cindy's gonna teach us.” “Then what I think is that Thug's in real trouble.” “And if our flapper outfits don't make the grade, there's always ...” Melanie stood up and pulled a pair of elaborately studded pants out of her bag from Dream Weaver. “Ta da … high waisted bell bottoms! But it's gonna take a crowbar to get this on over my diaper! Moby's, here I come!” “Don't worry about getting in.” Ian shrugged nonchalantly. “You'll make a call?” Jennifer was grinning from ear to ear. Diaper or no diaper, she had come to the conclusion that Professor Ian Grady was the catch of a lifetime. “Yeah. Hell, for all I know, Spats own the joint. And if he doesn't, he sure as hell knows who does. Besides, we need to give him a head's up. He'll want to send a few of his boys along to look after you, like they did last night. Which reminds me … Tippi, tonight? I want to introduce you to Harriet Belmondo. She runs the diaper service for Spats. If I'm not around, you can always reach him through her.” “Wait a second,” Terri gulped. “Are you saying that Lullaby Diaper Service is owned by the mob?” “Spats is a man of many parts,” Ian observed; “he's a shrewd businessman, and Lullaby is apparently quite profitable.” “But … but … I used Lullaby for both of my children! Are you telling me that I was forking money over to the Mafia?” “Looks that way,” Ian grinned. “But I like Spats, although I should note that I've been doing business with the Mafia all over the world for a number of years. Lest you judge them too harshly, the Outfit runs Vegas, and it's by far the safest city in America. If you walk down the Strip at two in the morning, you are not going to get mugged.” “That's what slot machines are for,” Emily laughed. “They aren't called one armed bandits for nothing!” “Can you call all the parents of the girls Missus Marshall has recruited for the house? If we lose them, Mom says that ZAP will be in real financial trouble.” Tippi was chewing on her lip; she was worried that the brawl they had caused at the hockey game would come back to haunt them, and she had no illusions about how a drunken outing to Moby's was likely to end. “Yes, and be sure and let them know that the sorority has a Mafia don keeping an eye on things.” Terri was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she had handed money over to Lullaby month in and month out for over six years. “And Fraternity Row's new Dad is known to one and all as 'Secret Agent Man',” Ian reminded her. “And Elaine is married to Donald Freeman, the CIA's deputy director in charge of our covert activities worldwide. I do favors for Donnie, and I do favors for the Mafia. Elaine knows the score, Terri, and she's fine with it.” Sophia stole a look at Ian out of the corner of her eye, and she noted that Emily Carlson was openly sizing him up. Ian was charming and soft spoken, but when the mask slipped, one sensed a very different personality hiding in the shadows. She was familiar with the Studies and Operations Group because a junior officer who had been traumatized by his experiences in the field had taken to drink, and then started telling tales in the bars that he frequented. He had been swept off the street and deposited in the secure wing of her Psych ward, where in all likelihood he would remain for the rest of his life. SOG had been the tip of the spear in Southeast Asia, several of its units suffering a hundred percent casualties in dead and wounded. The senior ranks had been decimated, and then some. Ian was one of the few unit commanders who had made it home alive. “Ian, I am going to call a meeting of the board, and I would like you as well as Bernice to attend.” Emily had decided that the moment was at hand to get down to business. “We need to host a reception at the end of term, with an eye to winning over the parents of our prospective new members. Cindy wants to do a theme event-- a Roaring Twenties formal affair straight out of The Great Gatsby. If the board agrees, I will want you to make the rounds and sell the fraternities on the idea, complete with tuxedos for all the young men attending. Can do?” “Can do,” he agreed. “I would also like to invite you and Sarah to dine with us. Andrew, my husband, is eager to meet you.” “I would be honored, but you will need to talk with Sarah. When it comes to our social life, she makes all the decisions. My only request is that you invite our whole exotic household, and that includes Tippi.” “What? Me?” Tippi was taken completely by surprise. She had never thought of herself as part of the family to which she was admittedly attached. “Tip, I don't leave people behind, at least not willingly. And the one time it happened has left a bad taste in my mouth.” Ian looked at her steadily, the mask stripped away. Every woman at the table could feel the command presence that had been lurking behind the facade. Ian folded up the diaper and put it back in the bag. He was ready to head home and do battle with his new kitchen. . . . . Shit!! Herb Canon paused in mid-stroke. It was the end of the month, so in addition to the run of the mill investigative reports that needed updating, he was saddled with writing performance reviews for the men and women in his unit. Herb worked major crimes, which in practice meant anything involving a weapon. Since car jacking was way up, with an organized gang apparently hitting parking ramps all over the downtown area, his typewriter was getting a real workout. Herb gritted his teeth and squeezed his legs, but to no avail. His bladder was relentless. Getting up from his desk and grabbing the newspaper, Herb headed for the men's room. He tried to be nonchalant, but couldn't help but wonder whether one of the other keen eyed desk jockeys had remarked that this was his third trip in the last two hours. And will anyone notice that my coffee mug has been banished to the nether regions of my desk? The damn thing has been sitting next to the phone for more years than I care to count. Used to be the case that when I got up, it was to hit the percolator. And now it's the God, damned toilet … Opening the door, Herb was relieved to discover that he once again would have the men's room to himself. Sticking to his spur of the moment plan, he headed straight to the porcelain throne, closing and locking the stall door in his wake. Make it look like number two … I mean, everybody's got to take a dump, right? And that's why God invented newspapers … Herb eased his trousers and his slightly damp underwear down to his ankles, and took a seat. The sports page beckoned, but it would have to wait until he had answered nature's call. These days, his bladder definitely had a mind of its own. With the riot at last night's college hockey game above the fold, the sports page cried out for attention, but Herb couldn't get his mind off his troubles. Maybe I can get by with wearing the thermal underwear that guys sometimes need when shoveling the driveway. It's padded, so the brief can handle a little pee … Maybe, just in case, I should wear rubber pants, or maybe whatever Vickie and Pris had on over their diapers the other night at the bar. There's gotta be something short of diapers … Two more years … just two more years … . . . . “Did you enjoy your trip to the mall, baby? Did you?” “Yeth, Mommy,” Ian managed to mumble around the nipple that Sofia was keeping firmly in his mouth. Returning to the car, they had gone full circle, Sofia insisting that he finish the last bottle of breast milk in her purse before driving home. Ian was once again laying awkwardly across the front seat with his head in his motherin-law's lap. She had pushed his pants down to his ankles, and while he nursed she was once again performing a thorough diaper check. Although she had changed him less than an hour earlier, he was already both wet and dirty. “Just like a newborn,” Sophia teased as she brought her finger up and waved it under Ian's nose. “Now that your body has adjusted to the breast milk, you can expect to mess fifteen or twenty minutes after every bottle. This will make it easy for Tippi to schedule your diaper changes at the office … which reminds me. You'll need to have two, maybe three diaper pails to hand. You'll probably be lugging one home every day.” Ian reached up to grasp the bottle with both hands. Sarah was his Mommy, and if she wanted her mother to treat him like an infant, he would go with it. He had entered into this relationship with his eyes wide open, and he had no intention of backing out. Besides, when the showdown finally happened, the illusion might buy Street Racer the precious seconds that, in battle, were often the difference between life and death.

I agree. This is really distracting. Overall, the narrative is good and the story has real appeal, but the structure needs help. For example, the penultimate paragraph is actually 3 paragraphs. Every time you switch from one character to another, you have to do this with a new paragraph. Every time. And I would also have a go at rewriting your second paragraph. Seven commas in one sentence! I would turn this into 4 sentences, and get rid of all the commas. Overall, I would try and tighten up the text because economy of expression is one of the keys to sustaining tension, which is central to a story such as this. For example, the paragraph that begins "it was a room with a bed." I would delete the third sentence because the reference to toys interrupts the flow without telling us anything essential to the situation he finds himself in. In fiction, details are tricky. We need them to fix the setting, but we don't want to overdo them because they can be a distraction. Keep plugging away. The more you write, the easier it becomes to sense the parts of the text that need to be reworked. But above all? Have fun!

Here's twenty more.

In this scene, the segment between Vickie and Priscilla actually rests on the diner scene in Pulp Fiction. It reads as dialogue/action/dialogue and appears to be in chronological order, but it isn't. It's action'dialogue. Later, I will use stanzas from the Delfonics Didn't I as chronological markers for an entire scene that is constructed the way the money exchange occurs in Jackie Brown.

Not to worry. Throw a couple of pasties in the oven (we get ours at Roys in Houghton), throw another log on the fire, and wait it out. My driveway was a sheet of ice this morning, and now it's raining on top of it. Might need to put on skates to collect the mail later on.

Agreed. The rules as stated are clear. IMO, we should stay away from creating sub-category after sub-category. Too easy to get lost in the weeds. I agree with this as well.

This is worth a read. https://www.zerohedge.com/political/meta-accused-using-pirated-books-train-ai-authors-are-pissed Before anyone uses one of these aids, should he/she look into how the material underlying the program was acquired?

Well said. I just asked google's AI the following question: "how do you describe the color red to someone who has been blind from birth?" Here is the answer ... To someone blind from birth, you could describe "red" as a vibrant, intense, and potentially "hot" sensation, like the feeling of a fire or the taste of a ripe strawberry, or the sound of a loud, sharp note. My own answer is somewhat shorter: "I can't."

And yet, there is this AI generated response on a certain search engine ... While William Shakespeare's works are undeniably influential and timeless, it's often said that Yogi Berra's "Yogi-isms" are quoted more frequently in everyday language than Shakespeare's, though this is a matter of popular perception rather than a quantifiable fact.

This is key. Languages are living things. My late wife was Thai, but educated in Singapore and England. Over the years, her command of Thai as a living language in the streets became more and more dated. Imagine someone saying "groovy" and the like today, and you will understand what I mean. Never, ever, judge books and films by any other standards except those that applied at the time they were created.

Another good chapter. A bit earlier, Julia commented that she thought her sister might be pregnant. Given how deeply maternal Sarah has turned out to be, I'm rooting for Michael somehow to get it done!

Another quality chapter. What most impresses me here is your willingness to address structural issues right away rather than set them aside for future reference. Obviously, none of us know whether a session with Crystal was always in the offing, or whether it is coming in response to our comments on Michael's red flags, but it is falling at just the right point in the story. Well done.

Touche deux fois! I worked up the staging for these mall scenes a long time ago. They are a tribute to the money exchange scene inside the department store ladies dressing room near the end of Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown. What you see in the film is not happening in chronological order, but QT gives you time stamps that can be used to decipher the actual order of events (which an enterprising youtuber has done in a 9 minute plus video). Here, Cindy and her friends are inside Dream Weaver at the same time Ian and Sophia are inside the maternity shop.

Touche deux fois! I worked up the staging for these mall scenes a long time ago. They are a tribute to the money exchange scene inside the department store ladies dressing room near the end of Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown. What you see in the film is not happening in chronological order, but QT gives you time stamps that can be used to decipher the actual order of events (which an enterprising youtuber has done in a 9 minute plus video). Here, Cindy and her friends are inside Dream Weaver at the same time Ian and Sophia are inside the maternity shop

At age 79, I have a somewhat different outlook. I have attended the funerals of all but one of my closest childhood friends. I have been at the bedside of two wives when they succumbed to cancer. I have stood over the grave of one of my children. But today I spent time with my two youngest grandchildren, and it was a very good day. Such is life.

I also expected this one. Compare it with the opening of "Jacob's Apartment Hunting Dilemma. From what I've seen, flowery language that is highly repetitive seems to be a characteristic of these programs. Keeping in mind that economy of language is a prime directive in publishing houses, here is how it might have gone: "My God, Jacob, what a glorious sunset! It's so ... so glorious!" "Miranda, Dear, you really need to cut back on the gin and tonics. Do you realize that this is the third day in a row you've proclaimed the sunset to be 'glorious', or 'breathtaking'? This is nothing compared to Waikiki, so enough, already!"

Which is what I expected. And it could not have been more wrong.

I'm curious. I'd like someone who works with this LLM stuff to enter the following, and let it complete the thought: "My God. Jacob, what a glorious sunset! It's

The director may be considered an artist, if only because the director locates the cameras. But the cinematographer is also an artist, and likewise the film and sound editors, the costume and stage designers, and on and on. But without a script, they would all be out of work. For example, Quentin Tarantino turned Elmore Leonard's Rum Punch into Jackie Brown, but the screenplay sticks closely to the plot and dialogue in the book. So, let's not confuse literary (the topic of this thread) and artistic production.

Is this not clear enough for you?

Not quite. The forum exists to allow members to read the work written by other members. Note that we do not have stories written by guests, any more than we have comments written by guests. I'm sorry, but it should now be clear to you that the consensus here is that your contribution is "guest" written to a degree that requires its housing in a separate silo for AI stories.

Gentle waves crest along the shore, Moonlight caressing the lonely strand. Wandered here yet once more, Together we walk hand in hand, Cooling sands beneath our feet, Offering promise of bold relief. Hand in hand we stroll the beach, Promises made we seek to keep. Heart swelling with love for thee, Exiled far from wintry skies, We lingered 'neath the banyan tree, The hours too swiftly passing by. Whispered words your sole command, I fall to my knees at your feet. Shadows grace this foreign land, Stolen kisses that taste so sweet. With morning's sun we'll leave this place, Once more yield our precious space. Northward bound lest we fall, Love conquered by our duty's call.