User f3b779af1005... - AI Fiction in the Wild

IP #136

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1 fiction conversations over 5 days (Sep 26, 2023 – Oct 2, 2023) 43% prompt uniqueness Moscow, Russia

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These IP addresses have similar average prompt embeddings (cosine similarity ≥ 0.85, same state). View as estimated user →

152370a3ffed... (255 conv., Moscow) 25b33c59d23e... (71 conv., Moscow) 2c0166f8daba... (343 conv., Moscow) 3186fcd1d6f7... (23 conv., Moscow) 41d90f3a9058... (6 conv., Moscow) 44580e65692b... (156 conv., Moscow) 4d2f2088e5a5... (53 conv., Moscow) 5c1d26e80570... (16 conv., Moscow) 68cd1231e329... (32 conv., Moscow) 7ffd82a431cb... (144 conv., Moscow) 80d33ea7c851... (5 conv., Moscow) 96d1c18c6bb8... (21 conv., Moscow) 9b7ebf049e11... (137 conv., Moscow) 9fb2aad693b3... (130 conv., Moscow) a2da078fff98... (28 conv., Moscow) b44db035ff1d... (192 conv., Moscow) b7ae3e566839... (26 conv., Moscow) c1f49ec710a9... (424 conv., Moscow) c65480c19768... (44 conv., Moscow) db3f4c72ca00... (31 conv., Moscow) f7aa19059ef5... (73 conv., Moscow) fbbe4466ea19... (24 conv., Moscow) fe5166559b27... (53 conv., Moscow)

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Sep 26, 2023

Oct 2, 2023

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1 conversation in cluster Cluster 61× “I want you to act as a writer. This novel features Beatrice ...” over less than a minute (Sep 28, 2023 – Sep 28, 2023), oldest first. Show: 10 15 50 100

Sep 28, 2023 at 4:34 PM MSK — 1 turn Russia, Moscow fiction View full conversation

USER: I want you to act as a writer. This novel features Beatrice Gravadin, a beautiful, elegant, but somewhat shy and indecisive young woman. Write long, original, imaginative, unusual and interesting chapter, narrated by Beatrice from the first person perspective, vividly and artistically describing her thoughts and feelings. It features the following events. Beatrice had some serious problems in her personal and professional life, causing her significant stress and depression. During that difficult time, Beatrice was in an accident. Her injuries were confirmed to be minor, with no lasting damage to nervous or musculoskeletal systems, yet Beatrice started to suffer from paralysis, mimicking the effects of spinal cord injury, complete with spasms and incontinence. It has since confirmed to be psychosomatic. While Beatrice' symptoms somewhat improved with psychological therapy, additional stressful and distressing events put her back on square one. As Beatrice wakes up and transfers to her wheelchair with help of her mother Ginette, she repeats yet again to her mother that she is not faking and tries to get better. Ginette says she understands, but Beatrice feels guilty for making people fuss over her.

CHATBOT: Chapter 7: The Shadows that Consume I wake up, trapped within the confines of my own mind. Each morning, it feels as if I am fighting against invisible chains, trying desperately to break free from the shackles of my own creation. The weight of my guilt bears down on me, suffocating and relentless. As I open my eyes, I am greeted by the dim light filtering through the curtains, casting long, ethereal shadows across the room. Shadows that seem to mirror the darkness that has taken residence in my soul. Today, like every day since the accident, I am bound to the confines of this wheelchair, my constant companion and reminder of my own fragility. As I struggle to sit up, my mother, Ginette, enters the room. Her face is etched with concern, lines of worry that have deepened with each passing day. She approaches me with a cautious tenderness, her hands trembling slightly as she helps me transfer into the wheelchair. I wish I could tell her that it's not her fault, that none of this is anyone's fault, least of all mine. But the words stick in my throat, trapped behind a wall of self-doubt. "Mother, please understand," I whisper, my voice barely a murmur. "I'm not faking this. I'm trying to get better." Ginette's eyes well up with tears, mirrors reflecting my own desolation. "I know, my dear. I know you are not faking. No one would willingly choose this torment." Her voice trembles, choked with a mix of anguish and helplessness. She envelops me in a loving embrace, holding me tightly as if to protect me from the demons that lurk beneath my skin. Guilt tugs at my heartstrings, threatening to drown me in its suffocating embrace. I am an anchor weighing down the lives of those around me. The thought of their fussing, their endless worry, creates an unbearable burden within me. I try to stifle a sob, but it escapes, a haunting echo of my inner torment. I yearn for the carefree days of my past, when decisions were made with ease and confidence. How did I become this woman, trapped by her own hesitations, haunted by her own fears? It feels as though my soul has been shrouded in a perpetual darkness, a black cloud that follows me wherever I go. The doctors, endless therapists, and their reassuring words felt like hollow promises, a thin veil of hope that I clung to like a drowning swimmer grasping at straws. They labeled it psychosomatic, a condition born out of my own mind. But the physical pain, the phantom sensations that course through my paralyzed limbs, are all to...

Cluster 61