You mentioned Joyce + Markov. This is the closest I can get with GPT4:

You mentioned Joyce + Markov. This is the closest I can get with GPT4:
Under the moon’s shifting gaze, a cacophony of whispers entwined with the spectral winds of the River Liffey. Its undulating shimmer of obsidian ink bathed the city’s silhouette in a dance of eternal metamorphosis. The cobblestones, restless and uneasy, slumbered under the footfalls of shadows that belonged to the ghosts of Dublin’s past.
There in the heart of the city, a cathedral of words emerged, constructed of fractured syntax and syntactical chaos. Its unyielding walls, built of metaphor and allusion, perplexed the spectres of time. The tower of Babel stood silent in envy, for this monument to language was crafted by the architect of dreams, the sorcerer of the subconscious, the one and only James Joyce.
Within this twisted labyrinth, the voices of characters long past echoed through the corridors of infinite sentences. In the chambers of Molly Bloom, her soliloquy of desire and yearning burst forth in rivulets of consciousness. The cacophony of her thoughts, unfettered and unapologetic, washed over the library of books, baptizing them in the fires of primal passion.
In the shadowy corners, Dedalus wandered through the winding halls, his quivering heart a beating metronome of artistic discovery. His footsteps echoed the rhythm of an Ithaca long lost, the echoes of his journey reverberating off the walls that defied explanation. His eyes, unclouded by the mundane, saw the world for what it truly was – a dream, a cosmic joke, a fickle and fleeting illusion.
In a forgotten antechamber, Leopold Bloom drifted between the realms of the living and the dead, his everyman existence caught in the tangled webs of mundane quotidian rhythms. He was a pendulum, oscillating between reality and the mystical, his grasp on the fabric of existence tenuous and uncertain. His heart ached for a connection, a tether to anchor him in the storm of thoughts that threatened to consume him.
As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the cathedral of words transformed, shedding its skin of ink and paper, exposing the raw nerves of human experience. The walls, once dense with text, became translucent, revealing a myriad of lives and stories that lay beneath, the collective consciousness of a city defined by its contradictions.
But in the darkest reaches of this sanctuary of the surreal, a lone figure stood, hunched over an ancient typewriter, his fingers dancing across the keys with the grace of a drunken spider. This was the master weaver of this linguistic tapestry, the mad conductor of this symphony of chaos.
His name was James Joyce, and he toiled in silence, crafting and deconstructing the very fabric of reality. As he bled his words onto the page, the walls of the cathedral trembled, resonating with the power of his creation. The spectres of Dublin’s past held their breath, the ghosts of its future whispered in anticipation, and the River Liffey flowed ever onwards, its inky waters the inkwell of eternity.
And so it was, in the heart of the city, that the monument to language stood, a testament to the power of the pen, a sanctuary of the surreal, and the ever-changing legacy of James Joyce.

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