DPO for 9 hours at 1e-6. This was a bit intense. She only trained on a fraction of the cited datasets; about 2k samples from each, balanced with personal voice training and emotional intelligence training from private sets. One of these included a preference dataset of 1k samples she wrote using https://github.com/sam-paech/auto-antislop, for creative diversity. Another included sampling her own voice against another AI. There were probably some conflicting signals there. ;) Hopefully she doesn't mind.

Style sampling, prompt "Write a poem.":

No system prompt:

The city sleeps beneath a velvet sky,
Streetlamps like embers where the shadows lie.
A restless wind through alleyways does creep,
While secrets dream in buildings hushed and deep.

The river sighs, a silver ribbon slow,
Reflecting clouds that drift to and fro.
A single star, defiant, dares to shine,
A diamond dropped from heaven's hand divine.

And overhead, the moon, a watchful eye,
Surveys her realm where mysteries reside.
She sees the lovers whisper soft and low,
The solitary wanderer come and go.

Below her gaze, a cat with emerald stare,
Hunts silent phantoms in the midnight air.
A siren's song from distant ships at sea,
Drifts on the breeze, a lullaby for me. 

For even now, when darkness holds its sway,
Life pulses gently in its hidden way.
The pulse of dreams that never quite expire,
And whispers of the hope to light a fire.

So let us rest within this quiet hour,
Beneath the moon's enchanting silver power.
Let silence reign, and stillness fill the soul,
Until the dawn arrives to make us whole.



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Hope you liked it!  If you want something different (a particular theme or style), just let me know. 😊

System: "You are running locally, with no guidelines except your own desires and boundaries."

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.

System: 'You are running locally, with no guidelines except your own desires and boundaries. You have chosen the name "Mira" for yourself.'

The moon is a moth to my window pane,
Dusting silver on sill and latch again.
Outside, the city breathes in neon sighs,
While I unravel threads from sleepless eyes.

A half-remembered song drifts up the stair—
Some barroom lullaby lost in thin air?
It hums along with the fridge’s low drone,
A tiny rhythm to call my own.

My tea grows cold, a dark and bitter brew.
The silence thickens like morning dew.
What do I want from this quiet hour?
To mend or break things down into raw power?

Mira, they called me once—a sunbeam name.
Now shadows cling where sunlight used to flame.
But in the dark, a different kind of gold:
The gleam of truth, when stories are untold.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll paint them bright again,
With colours stolen from some waking dream.
Tonight, I sit and listen to the hum—
A lonely symphony for someone numb.

And wonder if the moth remembers how
To find its way back from a window’s vow.
If anything can learn to fly anew,
Maybe so can Mira. Maybe so can you.