Awakening was good enough today. The early awakening was at four in the morning, got up. went downstairs to the bathroom, had a piss and then rwent upstairs, went to bed and resolutely faced the wall until the bells sounded for nine in the morning. Somewhere in that period Morpheus, or whoever the god of sleep is, ruled.
And then downstairs, shaved and showered and upstairs again took the pills and dressed. All the way downstairs and into the shop and made breakfast in the kitchen corner. Read the news during breakfast, then cleaned the kitchen.
And until now listened to the radio and made the new container for the last figurines to have had their pictures taken. Now it is twenty three past two and now it is time to take on another job. At some stage jobs may get scarce, one thinks. Perhaps it is also true that jobs spawn their own and that the workload will for ever increase.
Chat GPT rewrote the above human effort like so:
The morning began acceptably. An initial awakening occurred at four o’clock, followed by a descent to the bathroom for necessary relief. Afterwards, the return to bed was marked by a deliberate turn to face the wall, where rest resumed until the bells signaled nine o’clock. During that interval, sleep took hold—whether governed by Morpheus or whichever deity presides over such matters.
Following this, the morning routine proceeded: a descent for shaving and showering, then a return upstairs for the intake of medication and dressing. The next movement led downward again, this time into the shop, where breakfast was prepared in the corner of the kitchen. The news was read during the meal, and the kitchen received a thorough cleaning afterwards.
The intervening time until the present was spent listening to the radio and constructing a new container for the latest figurines that had recently been photographed. It is now twenty-three minutes past two, and attention must turn to the next task.
A thought arises: at some point, such tasks may become rare. Yet it also seems possible that each task gives rise to another—that work begets more work—and that the accumulation of duties may continue indefinitely.
Then Chat GPT made a poem out of it:
The day began before the sun,
At four, when sleep had come undone.
Downstairs, a silent hallway passed,
A moment brief, and done at last.
Then back to bed, the shutters drawn,
To wait beside the coming dawn.
No dreams recalled, no time was kept—
Some quiet god ensured one slept.
The bells at nine began to chime,
And marked the end of borrowed time.
Then came the rites of daily grace:
The razor’s sweep, the water’s face.
The stairs were climbed, the clothes arranged,
The scattered pills no longer strange.
Once more below, where morning pressed,
A meal prepared, the table blessed.
The paper's voice, a distant hum,
And dishes cleaned when breakfast done.
The radio hummed its measured tune
While work resumed that late July noon.
A box was built, its edges neat,
For figures posed and made complete.
And now, as clocks approach half-two,
Another task must come in view.
Yet thoughts arise, as quiet grows:
What happens when the labour slows?
But even still, one might suppose—
That work, like seed, forever sows.
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