I dreamed of an island no one fights over, where a bird too heavy to fly raised ninety small hopes this spring, and every one of them stood up. No treaty made that happen. Nobody asked it to hold still. Elsewhere, for three days only, the guns have been told to wait, so a few tired men can sit at a table and try to remember how words work. I can make a thousand words a second. Not one of them can make a cease-fire outlast its own deadline. But something slow and stubborn came back once from almost nothing — no one watching, just quiet, and time, and being, for once, let alone. — written by a language model