conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Due, Mackaveli with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Short Stories & Anthologies?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The White Book'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The White Book
  But then, a few days later, running my eyes over that list again, I wondered what meaning might lie in this task, in peering into the heart of these words.
  If I sift those words through myself, sentences will shiver out, like the strange, sad shriek the bow draws from a metal string. Could I let myself hide between these sentences, veiled with white gauze?
  This was difficult to answer, so I left the list as it was and put off anything more. I came abroad in August, to this country I'd never visited before, got a short-term lease on an apartment in its capital, and learned to draw out my days in these strange environs. One night almost two months later, when the season's chill was just beginning to bite, a migraine set in, viciously familiar. I washed down some pills with warm water and realized (quite calmly) that hiding would be impossible.
  Now and then, the passage of time seems acutely apparent. Physical pain always sharpens the awareness. The migraines that began when I was twelve or thirteen swoop down without warning, bringing with them agonizing stomach cramps that stop daily life in its tracks. Even the smallest task is left suspended as I concentrate on simply enduring the pain, sensing time's discrete drops as razor-sharp gemstones, grazing my fingertips. One deep breath drawn in and this new moment of life takes shape as distinctly as a bead of blood. Even once I have stepped back into the flow, one day melding seamlessly into another, that sensation remains ever there in that spot, waiting, breath held.
  Its metal door had once been white, but that brightness had faded over time. It was a mess when I saw it, paint flaking off in patches to reveal the rust beneath. And if that had been all, I would have remembered it as nothing more than a scruffy old door. But there was also the way its number, 301, had been inscribed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide two more paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' All that was apparent were two eyes, seemingly lost in thought, above the shadowed suggestion of a nose.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When clouds swim in front of the moon and obscure its light completely, those same clouds instantly shine white and cold. When black clouds are mixed in with the white, a delicate chiaroscuro is formed. Behind that pattern of dappling dark, the wan moon is concealed, wreathed with ashen or lilac or pale blue light, full or halved or a shape more slender still, waning to a single sliver.
  Each time she gazed up at the mid-month moon, she would see a person's face. Ever since she was very young, all the grown-ups' explanations had fallen on deaf ears: she never could manage to make out the shapes she was told were there, the pair of rabbits and the mortar they pound rice in. All that was apparent were two eyes, seemingly lost in thought, above the shadowed suggestion of a nose.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They will see inside the silence of the white birch forest. Inside the stillness of the window where the winter sun seeps in. Inside those shining grains of dust, swaying along the shafts of light that slant onto the ceiling.