conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for a book with the title 'A Month of Sundays'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Month of Sundays
  FORGIVE ME MY denomination and my town; I am a Christian minister, and an American. I write these pages at some point in the time of Richard Nixon's unravelling. Though the yielding is mine, the temptation belongs to others: my keepers have set before me a sheaf of blank sheets—a month's worth, in their estimation. Sullying them is to be my sole therapy.
  I feel myself warming to this, which is not my intent. Let my distraction remain intractable. No old prestidigitator amid the tilted mirrors of sympathetic counselling will let himself be pulled squeaking from this glossy, last-resort, false-bottomed topper.
  The Reverend Mr. Thomas Marshfield, 41 this April last, 5′ 10″, 158 pounds, pale and neural, yet with unexpected whirlpools of muscularity here and there—the knees, the padding of the palms, a hard collar of something bullish and taut about the base of the neck and the flaring out of the shoulders. Once a shortstop, once a prancing pony of a halfback. Balding now. Pink on top if I tilt for the light, otherwise a gibbonesque halo of bronze fuzz. Mouse tufts above dead white ears. Something ruddy about the tufts; field mice? Little in the way of eyebrows. Little in the way of lips: my mouth, its two wiggles fitted with a wary set as if ready to dart into an ambiguous flurry of expressions, has never pleased me, though it has allegedly pleased others. Chin a touch too long. Nose also, yet thin enough and sufficiently unsteady in its line of descent to avoid any forceful Hebraism of character. A face still uneasily inhabited, by a tenant waiting for his credit ratings to be checked. In this interregnum neither handsome nor commanding, yet at least with nothing plump about it and, lamplike, a latently incandescent willingness to resist what is current. I have never knowingly failed to honor the supreme, the hidden commandment, which is, Take the Natural World, O Creature Fashioned in Parody of My Own, and Reconvert its Stuff to Spirit; Take Pleasure and Make of it Pain; Chastise Innocence though it Reside within the Gaps of the Atom; Suspect Each Moment, for it is a Thief, Tiptoeing Away with More than it Brings; Question all Questions; Doubt all Doubts; Despise all Precepts which Take their Measure from Man; Remember Me.
  I am a conservative dresser. Black, gray, brown let the wearer shine. Though I take care with the knot of my tie, I neglect to polish my shoes.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' Remember my compulsive hymn to the toilet bowl? Shall we work on that later? Or flush it?
  Martin, though the meanness of the vexed will always be his, does not have much aptitude for sin; he has my delight in fittingness, but applied to his own body, and now that he has a driver's license he shames me by always fastening the safety belt, and never exceeding the speed limit.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: SHORT, BRIGHT PARAGRAPHS today. Yesterday I successfully eliminated, in all but the clutchiest of shots, my excess of backswing. For an at-moments sparkling 82. Amazing, how powerful a short swing (with some hips into it) can be.
  Puttering. For instance, a number of broken sash cords hung from the windows, making them sticky to open and yet liable to fall like guillotines upon the numb skull of one attempting to replace storm panes with screens.* I had never taken apart a window before. What an interlocked, multi-deviced yet logical artifact one is! And how exciting, all the screws unscrewed and stop strips removed, to pull forth from decades of darkness the rusted sashweight, such a solid little prisoner, and fit him with a glossy new noose and feel him, safe once again in his vertical closet, tug like life upon the effortlessly ascendant sash! It is positively sexual, this answering quickening from within the carpentered arcanum of the frame.
  Or Jane, whose virtue sought symmetry and enclosure, had been long bothered by the absence of a door leading from the foyer into the living-room. There had once been a door there, hinge-butts testified. But the door itself had vanished. But there were other doors, left over from some renovation of the morcenary Morse, in the cellar, displaced to there from the garage when it was in turn renovated. I found one of them sound and, with some planing, to fit. Finding matching hardware, however, was an ingenious work of salvage, that sent me even into the attic, where a solitary brass strike, of obsolete design, waited loose on a sill to be rendered useful to Man again. Other bits—the other half of the hinges, the latch bar—were painted and riddled with rust, and the idle little work, at my cozy bench beside the furnace, of integrating these components, of cleaning them in coffee cans of seething chemicals and fitting them to the patched and puttied door, which had been hinged oppositely from how I intended to hang it, gave me a pleasure perhaps disproportionate to the benefit achieved. It is true, when at last in place, the residual imperfections of my handiwork struck me more forcibly than its skill, and I had a demonic impulse to splinter the whole thing with the hammer warm in my hand from tapping home the hinge pins. But I desisted, habituation soon assuaged me, and Jane was pleased. That I continued to wish, and continue to wish, to please my wife, I append as a sorry frill upon, as an ulcerated blemish beneath the belt of, these confessions. Perhaps Jane's coo of admiration, wrung by my work from her sainted silence, did for my mother's singing.
  It occurs to me, remembering the fabled time when I lived in the world and had my being there, that I was infatuated with completion, with the repair in place, the sermon delivered, the ejaculation achieved, the letter mailed; with the deed done rather than, as a healthy hedonism might fatuously advise, with the doing. As a chid* I would put myself to sleep by imagining objects—pencils, hassocks, teddy bears—sliding over a waterfall. I loved shedding each grade as I ascended through school. Even the purgative sweep of windshield wipers gratifies me. A lifelong drive to disrobe myself of circumstances has brought me stripped to this motel. Remember my compulsive hymn to the toilet bowl? Shall we work on that later? Or flush it?
  Martin, though the meanness of the vexed will always be his, does not have much aptitude for sin; he has my delight in fittingness, but applied to his own body, and now that he has a driver's license he shames me by always fastening the safety belt, and never exceeding the speed limit.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last two paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: What a surprise. Your knock wasn't the knock of doom after all. What remains, at this moment, a moment of this my last hour, was the brave way in which you undressed without comment, disclosing with not the flicker of a plea that you were, not fat, but thick, certainly thick, so that my startled arms, embracing, felt to be encircling the trunk of a solid but warm tree. And the tranquillity of you upon your back! Permitting your breasts to be molded again and again—amazing breasts, so firm they seemed small, the nipples erect upon little mounds of further erectile tissue, so that a cupola upon a dome was evoked, an ascent in several stages, an architectural successiveness. Difficult, from your profile, to guess your pleasure. You seemed lost in thought, only your hand speaking to me, lightly drawing my penis up into its ideal shape, so it could once again lose its ache in the almost—nay, veritably—alarmingly liquid volume of the passage to your womb. The entire process indolent, chronic, tranquil. How many times? I did lose count. I feel drained, light; I have a fever, a light headache. Was I worthy? You have brought me to an edge, a slippery edge. And nothing left for me to do, dear Ideal Reader, but slip and topple off, gratefully.
  What is it, this human contact, this blank-browed thing we do for one another? There was a moment, when I entered you, and was big, and you were already wet, when you could not have seen yourself, when your eyes were all for another, looking up into mine, with an expression without a name, of entry and alarm, and of salutation. I pray my own face, a stranger to me, saluted in turn.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I pray my own face, a stranger to me, saluted in turn..
  What is it, this human contact, this blank-browed thing we do for one another? There was a moment, when I entered you, and was big, and you were already wet, when you could not have seen yourself, when your eyes were all for another, looking up into mine, with an expression without a name, of entry and alarm, and of salutation. And nothing left for me to do, dear Ideal Reader, but slip and topple off, gratefully. Was I worthy? You have brought me to an edge, a slippery edge. I feel drained, light; I have a fever, a light headache. How many times? I did lose count. The entire process indolent, chronic, tranquil. You seemed lost in thought, only your hand speaking to me, lightly drawing my penis up into its ideal shape, so it could once again lose its ache in the almost—nay, veritably—alarmingly liquid volume of the passage to your womb. Difficult, from your profile, to guess your pleasure. And the tranquillity of you upon your back! Permitting your breasts to be molded again and again—amazing breasts, so firm they seemed small, the nipples erect upon little mounds of further erectile tissue, so that a cupola upon a dome was evoked, an ascent in several stages, an architectural successiveness. What remains, at this moment, a moment of this my last hour, was the brave way in which you undressed without comment, disclosing with not the flicker of a plea that you were, not fat, but thick, certainly thick, so that my startled arms, embracing, felt to be encircling the trunk of a solid but warm tree. Your knock wasn't the knock of doom after all.What a surprise