Care for a challenge?Take/use a picture of a landscape. No humans. Now, I want you to describe it using the five human senses. I want to feel like I'm in the picture. Nature preferred.
You do it first
>>24692775you want my training data how about you buy it from me
What did you see? I saw the Orlun range running west. The just-set Sun ignited the particles in the air and put his pale gold in everything. Of clouds there were three kinds: daubed blotches in the near distance, like dabs of paint; diffused mottled patterns in the middle distance, like the sky's leopard skin; and half-hidden banks of water vapour, in the distance, just about blended to the sum total of sundown. The earth was a gradient of shadows containing every kind of violet and black. Like the night's vanguard. Kind shadows, probing the land before their dominion becomes complete. Everything was part of everything else. I'll never do it justice. And the mountains? Many have said that the Orlun's foothills remind them of women. Women sleeping, in a state of lateral recline. Women sleeping so long that the soil and plants have covered them over. All you can catch is a soft curve of hip, a turn of breast, a ridgeline, a parting of the legs. That's where the water runs. And the sound? A low roar, on the other end of silence. And the smell? Warm dust. Cool wind. The first fingers of the night. The taste? Tasted like sweat and salt. Could have been the salted beef however. The feeling? There's no word for that.
no purple prose please
Muh balls are real itchy. If I scratch this itch it'll tear skin, again.The lice in my home should be gotten rid of.The cicadas are way to loud here too. Not to mention my neighbors moaning all night keeping me awake,fuckin' like animals.I need t' get outta this hell. "Hey Timmy, fuck you!" I hope he heard me. You're arm and middle finger comes down from its typical position over your head. It's too early for this shit man, it's moist as fuck. My pits smell and feel wet, irritating. "I've been thinkin'", you feel a cold, metal, cylindrical barrel touching the hard, moist top of your mouth. Your lips wrap around the metallic tasting shaft.Is this the morning? It's like biting on tinfoil. Closing your eyes shut as tight as possible, until..*Click*......Unlucky, back to another day in hell.
>>24692775A river floats languidly from West to East. Its surface, shit brown and opaque from endless roiling sediment, is broken hither and thither by floating putrid green masses that once upon a time had been human bodies but now resemble bluebottle and greenbottle balloons about to burst from the lightest pressure. The sight isn't the most terrible thing about the river. The smell is: a combination of humid green decay with the smell of a wet dog, smeared with feces, peppered with the awfully sweet sulfurous stench of rotting meat. So thick is the smell of the river that it grazes your skin the same unpleasant warm oily moist way the man in the orange turban with piercing eyes grazed the tits of your wife before you stepped here, on the shore.So thick is the smell that it infiltrates your mouth like liquid cotton and coats your mouth like the brown curry you had bought from the fat smiling man with a black mustache and a soiled apron called Rapeddeer who sat crosslegged and stirred the curry with his right hand in a rusty bowl atop a piss stained street veiled in a yellow orange avalanche of human vomit. The texture of moldy and wet and crumbling plants along with the liquefied cold sludge of decaying human flesh wriggling with the living rice grain sized maggots fills your mouth with every single intake of breath.You look around, at the shit brown and cadaver gray shore against which diarrhea brown waves laps gently. Conchs, torn pieces of wet sari, old bones, yellowing, and the fresh cow skulls, leering with black sockets and a sardonic smile, greet your eyes.You look back at the water. Dirt brown. Fecal stained. You bent down and gather the water in your cupped right hand and bring it to your parched mouth. The water is as warm as piss straight from the source. It tastes bitter. Like shit. Small cold spongy chunks of human flesh get stuck between your teeth. A cold slimy serpentine shape writhes on your tongue, then goes down your chest like an cold tentacle as you swallow the water. It continues wiggling in your stomach, a corpse cold hair horse long worm adjusting to its new home. You straighten and greet the pale blue sky. Now, you're Aryan.
>>24692775there is nothing gayer than describing an environment and the greatest sign of a ngmi writer. let their imagination do the work and only provide the essential story points
>>24693417see? it's boring as shit.>orlun rangewho cares?>westok?>set sunoh a sun set how original>cloudsok holy shit are you even listening to yourself? i can't do this
>>24694149this is a story>>24694368this is shit
Touch of morning. Smell of wet. Zip my fleece up, still cold. What would I do without my car. A wish for coffee zooms past me bright and glorious. O coffee! O cheap disposable cups! No coffee obtainable here. Nor any car to be seen in, what, must be half an hour now. Dripping from the branches, from the twigs, from what I think were once called boughs, is constant. People must have been robbed here once, I have no doubt. Beneath the boughs you rest your velvet-swaddled buttocks on the dead wood. A dewy morning just like this. Your bulky jacket is heavy with coins and letters to guildsmen and appeals to priests, a lardy pastry for the road. Then the smell of ale-breath behind you, a Good morning gentle traveller, and here grin several men with cudgels and sharp hooks. And never to see your lardy wife again! I hear something sudden and violent outside the car, things splitting and slapping. Probably nothing stranger than animals in the undergrowth, a small hungry bird taking flight. A stupid maniac child of nature. Chill out, small bird. Enjoy the morning, employ your precious senses for something other than the getting of grubs. I too would enjoy this scene, would drink it in and transform it into a mysteriously beautiful memory, perhaps I would even write about it, if only I had a cup of hot coffee in my hand right now.
