conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Afrofuturism, Inner-City, Fantastic with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Forever Man'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled The Forever Man about Bill, U.S, Aerospace with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bill was born at the U.S. Naval Hospital, Camp LeJune, North Carolina, 1944, and he has lived in southwestern Pennsylvania most of his life. He graduated from Har-Brack High School in 1963, and he attended A.T.I. in Pittsburgh, graduating with a degree in Aerospace Electronics. He was employed by Westinghouse Aerospace in Baltimore, Maryland working on aerospace and space program projects for the U.S. Government. He has also worked in traffic management and the industrial electrical field for thirty years, retiring in 2002. He has been married for 39 years to his wife Linda and has two children and three grandchildren. Bill has had a lifetime interest in literature and writing and has published several pieces of poetry. He has completed a book of poetry and also a book of short stories. He is currently working on three more novels in the Clive Aliston series plus two other full length novels.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bill was born at the U.S. Naval Hospital, Camp LeJune, North Carolina, 1944, and he has lived in southwestern Pennsylvania most of his life. He graduated from Har-Brack High School in 1963, and he attended A.T.I. in Pittsburgh, graduating with a degree in Aerospace Electronics. He was employed by Westinghouse Aerospace in Baltimore, Maryland working on aerospace and space program projects for the U.S. Government. He has also worked in traffic management and the industrial electrical field for thirty years, retiring in 2002. He has been married for 39 years to his wife Linda and has two children and three grandchildren. Bill has had a lifetime interest in literature and writing and has published several pieces of poetry. He has completed a book of poetry and also a book of short stories.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Forever Man
  No gutsy survivors who finally discovered the trick to broadcasting a distress signal. No last-minute stragglers who escaped extermination in Skagway or Whitehorse. Around us, there's snow, ice, and the disemboweled city of Anchorage in the distance, its skyline mutilated and squashed, filled with the crushed leftovers of businesses and people's homes. I know from a previous visit that the sea is also slowly devouring the metropolitan area, making a Slurpee of downtown. But there were never any refugees.
  He drops to his knees. His features—the long, aquiline nose, the cheekbones as high and sharp as his eyes—have gone dark, thrust into shadow by the aureole of light behind his head, like a medieval icon in reverse. Maybe it's better this way. This way I can't see his face pinched with panic. I only feel the kiss of his dark hair tickling my cheek as he strains to lift me back onto my feet.
  Blood continues to dribble from my mouth, and when I go to wipe it away—like ketchup, or mustard—it gets on my glove and leaves a long streak along the arm of my jacket. The gaping hole in my chest wheezes when I try to inhale. I feel like a balloon, except I don't want to float away.
  A smile surfaces on my lips, like a corpse floating to the top of a lake. Apparently even dying can't diminish my sense of humor. Good for me.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Forever Man
  No gutsy survivors who finally discovered the trick to broadcasting a distress signal. No last-minute stragglers who escaped extermination in Skagway or Whitehorse. Around us, there's snow, ice, and the disemboweled city of Anchorage in the distance, its skyline mutilated and squashed, filled with the crushed leftovers of businesses and people's homes. I know from a previous visit that the sea is also slowly devouring the metropolitan area, making a Slurpee of downtown. But there were never any refugees.
  He drops to his knees. His features—the long, aquiline nose, the cheekbones as high and sharp as his eyes—have gone dark, thrust into shadow by the aureole of light behind his head, like a medieval icon in reverse. Maybe it's better this way. This way I can't see his face pinched with panic. I only feel the kiss of his dark hair tickling my cheek as he strains to lift me back onto my feet.
  Blood continues to dribble from my mouth, and when I go to wipe it away—like ketchup, or mustard—it gets on my glove and leaves a long streak along the arm of my jacket. The gaping hole in my chest wheezes when I try to inhale. I feel like a balloon, except I don't want to float away.
  A smile surfaces on my lips, like a corpse floating to the top of a lake. Apparently even dying can't diminish my sense of humor.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide another paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A smile surfaces on my lips, like a corpse floating to the top of a lake. Apparently even dying can't diminish my sense of humor. Good for me.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last three paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'A smile surfaces on my lips, like a corpse floating to the top of a lake'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A smile surfaces on my lips, like a corpse floating to the top of a lake. Apparently even dying can't diminish my sense of humor. Good for me.
  Tears spill onto my cheeks, warm. I don't know whether they're mine or his. "I love you," I say, the words half-gargled in blood. He cradles me to him, leans down, and I taste the ash on his lips, dry and chapped from the wind. They bump and scrape against my own—so real, so tangible—and I struggle to rise back to consciousness like a princess awakened from a curse.
  At least the pain is beginning to ebb, which is nice, but also bad. Not like I needed another sign to tell me what I already know. What the taste of the inside of my lungs has already told me.