conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Dracula in Love about span, Feiler, Reviews with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: <span class="h1"><strong>Bruce Feiler Reviews <em>Dracula in Love</em></strong></span>
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first two paragraphs for this book.. End with the sentence ' I had no mistress.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dracula in Love
  It happens to me, without the influence of cinematic technique. When I'm afraid, I see intimations of threat in the most harmless artifacts. The coffeepot seems to be conspiring with the sugar bowl and the light bulb's glare seems harsh: a warning glare. I don't experience that sort of sensation often—my analyst saw to that. Usually, it's not there. But sometimes. Sometimes, as with the moment I saw the letter.
  My life had been busy but banal for eight years, a plateau, eventless except for the stormy separation from my wife, Lollie. Even my weekly aggression sessions with my therapist had become a dull routine. I had no mistress.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I pressed the button and waited apprehensively. The elevator doors slid aside and Toltin and I stepped into the tomblike chamber. I didn't like being in the elevator. Especially alone with Toltin. I could smell him. The elevator's closeness reminded me of that basement room, the woman impaled, her humanity burned away in agony as she collapsed like a slug writhing under salt, melting...
  But weariness, sickness, self-loathing—they came on me all at once in a wash of three dark colors. I closed my eyes, coughing, bile searing my throat. I wanted to fall on a bed and sleep. I wanted to fall right there on the rug. And sleep. A park bench, a sidewalk, anywhere.
  A thud followed by a reverberating ache in my head made me open my eyes. I looked up. Toltin was bending over me, his face creased in suspicion. "Get up," he hissed, "if someone sees you like this you'll blow the whole fucking thing, stupid!"
  I was standing, then, and the transition had come as abruptly as my falling. I shook myself, and went to the water fountain, splashed my eyes; seeing my face distorted in the fountain's curved chrome, my features lost in the draining water...
  Toltin saved me from another collapse: he kicked me in the shins. I grunted and straightened. The pain woke me, put things in perspective. Toltin put away his gun and we walked down the hall to the smoky-glassed door marked 716.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Toltin put away his gun and we walked down the hall to the smoky-glassed door marked 716.. The pain woke me, put things in perspective. I grunted and straightened.
  Toltin saved me from another collapse: he kicked me in the shins... I shook myself, and went to the water fountain, splashed my eyes; seeing my face distorted in the fountain's curved chrome, my features lost in the draining water. "Get up," he hissed, "if someone sees you like this you'll blow the whole fucking thing, stupid!"
  I was standing, then, and the transition had come as abruptly as my falling. Toltin was bending over me, his face creased in suspicion. I looked up.
  A thud followed by a reverberating ache in my head made me open my eyes. A park bench, a sidewalk, anywhere. And sleep. I wanted to fall right there on the rug. I wanted to fall on a bed and sleep. I closed my eyes, coughing, bile searing my throat.
  But weariness, sickness, self-loathing—they came on me all at once in a wash of three dark colors... The elevator's closeness reminded me of that basement room, the woman impaled, her humanity burned away in agony as she collapsed like a slug writhing under salt, melting. I could smell him. Especially alone with Toltin. I didn't like being in the elevator. The elevator doors slid aside and Toltin and I stepped into the tomblike chamber.I pressed the button and waited apprehensively
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last paragraph.. Start with the sentence 'I remember too much'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I remember too much. I've written this as a sort of catharsis, to take the memories from my mind and press them safely onto paper. I'm beginning to forget—this text is nepenthe. It's a spell of forgetfulness.