We weaved a hole in the rain and put it in the wind.
The fish tell us:
These hands of the sea take their toll on you often, and I cannot stay here for this much longer. The tidal wave bears me off like an anchor. I cannot find my way home.
The trout become like a submarine…in with me—on my fishing hole with us, ignoring all else. There is no writing, no noose, no breeze, no place where we should turn.
We have ended our own rules.
We weaved a hole in the rain and put it in the wind. I can see our progress through the water. Water bubbling out to join us—escaping the washing of time. Up ahead, a precious stone lies, the finest possible remnant.
A holy needle.
It comes from a river, almost as pure as the sea. Fishermen first fashioned it into a needle. In doing so they laid traps to draw the fierce fox out. All strands are numbered; therefore it was divined as the order in which they must be drawn.
With the craft at an end, the fox returned—now furor returns.
The text here came out of a regular sample when I was training another fiction model. It must have had whatever the default generation settings are for the samples in gpt-2-simple.
I’ve only added formatting.