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Record data

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  "cid": "bafyreic4ojtfypfzq4h7nsy25yjtfkzdxpor5s6b6izoz2vel6olftety4",
  "value": {
    "text": "One hallmark of generative AI-produced fiction is that it's kind of incoherent if you have a modicum of intelligence. Things do not crackle with age. A compass can point in any direction, north included, regardless of surrounding noise. It's all just so overwrought.",
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          "alt": "ChatGPT responds to a prompt to write a one paragraph scence where a person finds an object. The response is: Evelyn’s breath caught as she stepped into the abandoned greenhouse, pale light filtering through cracked panes onto a forest of withered ferns and climbing ivy. Near the back, half-hidden beneath a tangle of dead leaves, she spotted something gleaming: a small, silver compass, its glass face crackling with age. She reached down, brushing away grime to reveal an intricately carved rose at its center. The needle quivered before settling resolutely north, even though the world around her had fallen eerily silent—an invitation to follow wherever it pointed. ",
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    "langs": [
      "en"
    ],
    "createdAt": "2025-05-08T16:52:46.186Z"
  }
}