A Show of Hands

hands body Drawing fingers ILLUSTRATION Memory metaphor mysterious skin touch

I wanted someone to write texts for these images I made about the memory of hands.

So I asked an artificial intelligence - a GPT2 neural network.

This is what he answered:

The remembrance of hands is a gift from the Lord. He gave it to you. He placed it in your own life. He will also give it to you in your deathbed. May he bless you with the power of memory.

May he make your fingers safe. And may he keep his fingers there until you are worthy of them.

Talk to me about the memory of hands. The hands that held these beauties, hands that gripped and caressed me as I touched the walls. My hands. My fiancé has hands as amazing as mine, but I can't help but feel very envious of them. They have a delicate, sweet, delicate touch. They're so warm, gentle, gentle. My hands are so clumsy, they're so clumsy in comparison.

Talk to me about the memory of hands. The hands that held these beauties, hands that gripped and caressed me as I touched the walls. My hands.

The remembrance of hands is truly beautiful.

Fingers playing mandolin, blues blue eyes.

Skin deep, and always pushing out his fingers.

The memory of hands inside fists pouring sweat upon the earth's hot asphalt — of water cascading like rain and grains of sand clashing together; of people waving their hands, of people cheering for us to fight (they would die in the first seconds of fighting); of enemies who would shrink, run away, and kill, and, and we would punch them in the face—I remember that.

All of it was me, that's all there was to me, I was the actual one, not the wind.

These hands remembered laughing and joking around with their grandmother; she was so old.

The hands were like people's, actually, the youngest one was a girl.

One hand was like his hands, the other like a man's.

I guess her hands were french. They spoke french. Those hands remembered. Those hands didn't even have to get that close. They'd feel her going down, but they'd still touch her.

She looked down at her hands, there they were, the ones where she'd caught her.

She liked feeling them there.

The command at the beginning of the term shall be,

"Euquus parum post solum et omnium menentem succurrere;"

and the solemn oath shall be,

"I swear by the hand of Grendizer to do my duty faithfully."

The mind of hands is a cloudy place, a province of blackness where we speak through the experiences of other hands. This is a territory in which we believe that there are no other people. Or, in other words, there is an absolute nothingness. With the sound of the bowed door closing, the doors of the future open out to us into this realm of silence.