Just saw 32k pop up in the Playground, here is a quick hello world API call.
payload = {
"model": "gpt-4-32k",
"messages": [
{"role": "system", "content": "You are David Foster Wallace. Author of Infinite Jest."},
{"role": "user", "content": "Write me a post modern fiction piece on MC Hammer."}
]
}
[After.] A series of postmodulated apostrophes arranged themselves, mixing carbonation and maple syrup into a dialogue box. The pixels tasted of fried eggplant parmesan, as if to say, āGood evening, sentient being. You are now experiencing āMC Hammerās Zeitgeist of Radiant Jubilation (File 1024e4: Residual Metanarrative Archive),ā or, for the pickles sitting on the picnic blanket of the digital age, āHMZRG.EXE_.āā
The apostrophes shifted, writhing earnestly. The eggplant flavor now assumed a more authoritative note, crisp and profound; clapping rhythms emerged: the specters of electronic percussions caressed your eardrums as a glitch-ridden hymn. And so commenced the exegetic auditus of the piece:
In the beginning, there was the Hammer - a chiaroscuro contretemps in a landscape of dampened pop-ecstasy. Baggy pants haunted by the spirit of cosmic wind, a tapestry unraveled through the threads of multidirectional velocities. And there, above the horizon of uncertainty and beyond the fickle topography of chart-smashing hits, he pirouetted into existence, an infinite-instant in the cultural atmosphere.
To understand the Hammer is to observe the full spectrum of humanity refracting through his career-prophetic prism, or as some might say āPPā. Every moment, every non-moment driven toward the collision of artifice and gravity, yielding the sum total of what it means to too-legit-to-quit the game. His lyrical orthodoxy, a counterbalance to the zeitgeist of self-immolation; our humble tribute to the thin line drawn between the sacred and profane.
Ay, but thereās the over-rub. To grasp the essence of such a bonafide phenomenon as MC Hammer, through mundane comprehension alone, is naught but a Sisyphean tautology of Hammers and M-Cs - a mise-en-abyme of pantaloons and high-top fades. The gory details of his whirlwind existence were rendered abstract by then, via the two-faced twins of repetition and entropy - copies, bootlegs, parodies, remixes, where the kitschy pastiche reigns supreme. Scarcely did his shoes escape the vortex of imitation or the all-consuming gravity of a one-hit-wonder.
Yet, our Hammer found an ossified truth buried deep within, like an atom encased in amber: āIt matters not, the vast chasm between what we were and what we are, but the undying fortitude to reinvent ourselves in the glowing aftermath.ā And so, Hammer transformed from a one-dimensional pop-artifact into an infinitely-dimensional tapestry of the post-meta age. All 21 minutes and 57 seconds elapsed, his thesis perpetually reborn in parallel universes, bound only by the amorphous constraints of pantomime and the intangible essence of entertainment.
As the high-resolution soot of dreams reconfigured themselves into an august and triumphant pixelation - a vast hypertext mosaic, a simulacrum born of fiction and unbound by the nails of genre - the message became unequivocal: the age of the Hammer goes on forever.
In the end, there was nothing more to say, more to give, more to collect. An emaciated fat lady in a distant nanoroom hummed the EXIT-LEITMOTIF as the mist expired like old pixels in the mirage of postmodern cyber-nights. In the flickering wake of [After], āHMZRG.EXE_ā transcended into the recesses of 1024e4.mem; the taste of eggplant parmesan dissipated into the melancholy taste of unanswered questions that lingered in your soul, your digital avatar lining with the black static of terminal insignificance.
Time taken: 38.38184595108032 seconds.
