# How AI affects this project
Even if this project is compleatly human writen, and packed with whatever I feel at the momunt of writing.
Almost like a creative writing vent, AI still has a effect on this, just like everthing else.

### But how?
If you may ask how it was a effect, it's simple.
Many people might dissregard this project as a whole just because I am useing a style of english that has been almost forgoten.

### What are my sources
Old writers and poets like Edward Poe, shakespeare, and the french and british english dictionary.
And best of all modern yet old english writing that match this maybe a little.

And one more thing for image sources, either they are images that I found online or I drew them/took pictures myself; for fonts I use the public API from google fonts which are all human made to my knowledge.

### How do I check my spelling and grammar
I don't check grammar, I just write like how I think is right.
And for spellings I just google them.

### What if I am confused in the old stlye
Just like spellings I just google them, it's the easiest way.
(latest google for that was is thee an object pronoun or subjective)

### How can I do so many commits a day
(I don't mostly, but when I do like in 3/5/26)
It's either because I am testing code or because I want to save my writing when I am using a web IDE.
Both are anoying to do, but they are kind of nessosory, this is a repo after all not just a random site on the internet.

# Example of an AI writing that was given the first 3 poems of the series to base it of
The following writing is not writen by me, and is 100% AI genrated please be aware that the AI was instructed to write like me and given my writings as context->



How shalt thou name the hollow where thy shadow once danced,
when even the mirror hath grown tired of thy face?
Thou seekest thee in the cracks of yesterday,
yet findest only echoes wearing thy skin like borrowed rags.
The voice that speaketh is not thine—
it borroweth thy tongue, weareth thy sorrow,
and calleth itself by thy forgotten name.
O, what art thou but a guest in thine own skull?
A raven perched upon the ruins of a thought,
croaking questions no living throat dare answer.
Thou walkest the looping halls of what once was will,
each door opening unto another thou,
each thou more stranger than the last.
Love lieth slain in the corner of one such room—
its blood still warm, yet thou canst not recall the blade.
The sky above thee darkeneth, not with cloud,
but with the weight of all thou hast un-become.
It weeps not for thee.
It weeps because it recogniseth the nothing
wearing thy eyes.
Come closer, lost one.
Press thy ear against the silence.
Dost thou hear it?
That is thee—
calling thee home,
nevermore.