conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for a book with the title 'The Tenants of Moonbloom'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Tenants of Moonbloom
  Del Rio studied drama on the nights he didn't fight. You could see the complexity of his regimen in the way he looked at you from under the battered folds of his eyelids.
  Norman wondered if Louie talked to himself when no one else was available. The words came out so fast and irrelevant to sensible response that only nodding and smiling were possible. He nodded and smiled at the little man. Louie was fifty-one years old, but his hair was still all black and combed flat to his monkey head like gleaming skin. His ears were simian too, and he had a large nose and small dun-colored eyes.
  Norman slipped into his wallet the money that Louie had had waiting on the table. He wedged the receipt under Louie's floral plate and stood up.
  He walked through the evening streets to the subway at Fourteenth Street. The sky arched into superfluous immensities of distance; for Norman, the distance between him and the nearest passer-by was infinite. He felt dull and weary. There was a ringing in his ears that he attributed to a "bug" that must have attacked him the previous evening, and he defended the pulling, pushing sensation in his body, diagnosing a low fever and focusing on his perfect abode some concrete miles ahead. He looked forward to the comfort of doctoring himself. The wind, which had been autumnal during the day, now had the cold, death-damp smell of winter. He couldn't go around without a coat any more—this treacherous, changeable weather. He mused on the possibility of thermostatically controlled clothing that would keep one's body at a constant temperature, and didn't see the drunk vomit hideously, although he passed within a foot of him and was splashed slightly.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'Soon he reached the beginnings of his own neighborhood, and he remarked the quiet homeliness of the Victorian houses'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Soon he reached the beginnings of his own neighborhood, and he remarked the quiet homeliness of the Victorian houses. How small it all was! And then he was in front of his own house, with no feeling of drama, looking at the gray clapboard stained by rain. The familiar windows, that door. My God, he half expected to see Norman Moonbloom come walking out, calling over his shoulder to someone dear inside. For some time he stood there, bemused, comfortably haunted, pressing the house and the ground and the sky upon his heart, only to find with some dismay that, when he closed his eyes, all of it had left no mark he could discern.
  And then a fat man in a raincoat came out of the house. He stared at Norman blankly. Norman smiled and walked on.
  With a feeling of grief, he waved down the first bus he saw and rode back through the town. From the lighted bus the streets were grayer, dimmer. The occasional people were like shades, the buildings like tombs. His own house was a blur of nothing; downtown, with his favorite luncheonette, was an unlighted slide that revealed contours without life.
  It was a relief to board the train, where the sound of people's voices and the feeling of movement returned him at least to his body. For a while he watched the landscape sliding by in the early twilight, not thinking about anything ahead or behind. He rode the air without anger or pain or hunger, a sort of mote being sucked toward a great nucleus of noise and size, unanimated, almost peaceful, until the candy butcher came ranting through the car, pouring his lyrical madness over the plush and damp wool and flesh.
  Norman groaned and steeled himself for what could not be avoided, and the train whistle howled derisively as it sped him back to the city.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It was something as real and at the same time unreal as the hot coffee on his tongue, Norman thought. Or as real and unreal as sight, which takes in the huge depth of landscape with all its large movements and colors and planes and yet makes it all convincing in mysterious imprint on a dark whorl of tissue. Sentiment had to disintegrate under what his drunken mind knew now, and in its place come an immense capacity to consume. He felt carnivorous, as though he could devour all of them, himself included. Small, dusty man indeed! Why, he was huge, united with all of them! His eyes, his brain, his ears, all swallowed the universe. "Oh my," he belched.
  Then, suddenly, a rosy glow suffused the new white plaster, and they were done and it was morning. Basellecci stood with a beatific expression on his wasted face, and the other three admired with him the straight gleaming wall.
  And the other three looked at him and at each other, smiled, and put things away. One by one they left the apartment, while Basellecci sat gazing at the transfigured wall, and his coffee boiled on the stove.
  Outside was a wonder. The sun shone on the snow and made everything too brilliant to see. They parted, and Norman walked by himself, scabrous and weary. The air was warm, and already a dripping came from the roofs and drainpipes. There was a scent of earth.
  In his office he sat happily, waiting for Irwin. As he waited, he noticed that the last letter of his name had now been totally scraped away. Somehow it freed the word, opened it up so that the o's bubbled out endlessly, carried the crooning sound of the name out to an infinite note of ache and joy. It thrilled him with his own endlessness, and, almost laughing, he followed its course.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It thrilled him with his own endlessness, and, almost laughing, he followed its course. Or as real and unreal as sight, which takes in the huge depth of landscape with all its large movements and colors and planes and yet makes it all convincing in mysterious imprint on a dark whorl of tissue. Sentiment had to disintegrate under what his drunken mind knew now, and in its place come an immense capacity to consume. He felt carnivorous, as though he could devour all of them, himself included. Small, dusty man indeed! Why, he was huge, united with all of them! His eyes, his brain, his ears, all swallowed the universe. "Oh my," he belched.
  Then, suddenly, a rosy glow suffused the new white plaster, and they were done and it was morning. Basellecci stood with a beatific expression on his wasted face, and the other three admired with him the straight gleaming wall.
  And the other three looked at him and at each other, smiled, and put things away. One by one they left the apartment, while Basellecci sat gazing at the transfigured wall, and his coffee boiled on the stove.
  Outside was a wonder. The sun shone on the snow and made everything too brilliant to see. They parted, and Norman walked by himself, scabrous and weary. The air was warm, and already a dripping came from the roofs and drainpipes. There was a scent of earth.
  In his office he sat happily, waiting for Irwin. As he waited, he noticed that the last letter of his name had now been totally scraped away. Somehow it freed the word, opened it up so that the o's bubbled out endlessly, carried the crooning sound of the name out to an infinite note of ache and joy.It was something as real and at the same time unreal as the hot coffee on his tongue, Norman thought.