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Kimi K2.7 Code just made Kimi K2.6 painfully outdated we tested Kimi K2.7 Code against Kimi K2.6, GPT 5.5, and Claude Opus 4.8 across Lorenz attractors, solar systems, and water waves in our previous comparison, Kimi K2.6 struggles with physical motion, now K2.7 gave the most realistic rendering of...

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GMI Cloud

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87,136 просмотров • 1 месяц назад •via X (Twitter)

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Kimi K2.6 just cooked Claude design 😭 Kimi already ships the video hero section when Claude is still rendering effects way faster iterations and… 9x cheaper see prompt in the comments 🧵👇
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Kimi K2.6 just cooked Claude design 😭 Kimi already ships the video hero section when Claude is still rendering effects way faster iterations and… 9x cheaper see prompt in the comments 🧵👇

Darshal Jaitwar

148,046 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

we compared Gemini 3.1 Pro, Opus 4.7, and GPT 5.5 to Kimi K2.6, Xiaomi Mimo v2.5, and Qwen 3.6 Max in average, closed source are faster. GPT 5.5 and Opus 4.7 the fastest. Kimi K2.6 comes after. It keeps up thanks to its native INT4 quantization. MiMo took the longest, but the refinement and aesthetic only ranks after Gemini 3.1. as if a mini Gemini. Its slow cuz it's trained for long-horizon agentic work. Claude Opus 4.7 is blooming in a very different style, probably because Anthropic trains for taste, not just accuracy.
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we compared Gemini 3.1 Pro, Opus 4.7, and GPT 5.5 to Kimi K2.6, Xiaomi Mimo v2.5, and Qwen 3.6 Max in average, closed source are faster. GPT 5.5 and Opus 4.7 the fastest. Kimi K2.6 comes after. It keeps up thanks to its native INT4 quantization. MiMo took the longest, but the refinement and aesthetic only ranks after Gemini 3.1. as if a mini Gemini. Its slow cuz it's trained for long-horizon agentic work. Claude Opus 4.7 is blooming in a very different style, probably because Anthropic trains for taste, not just accuracy.

GMI Cloud

37,446 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад

I tested Kimi K3 vs Claude Opus 4.8 Same prompt, an armory bay with lighting, props, and detail. Top is Kimi K3, bottom is Opus 4.8. It's not even close. Kimi K3 built a full scene with textures, proper lighting, ammo crates, weapon racks, working detail everywhere. Opus 4.8 gave me a near empty room with a couple of floating tables. No doubt it beats Opus 4.8. Kimi K3 is Fable 5 level, and it's clearly better than GPT-5.6 Sol at 3D and games. An open weight model just matched the best closed models on the market. Let that sink in.
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I tested Kimi K3 vs Claude Opus 4.8 Same prompt, an armory bay with lighting, props, and detail. Top is Kimi K3, bottom is Opus 4.8. It's not even close. Kimi K3 built a full scene with textures, proper lighting, ammo crates, weapon racks, working detail everywhere. Opus 4.8 gave me a near empty room with a couple of floating tables. No doubt it beats Opus 4.8. Kimi K3 is Fable 5 level, and it's clearly better than GPT-5.6 Sol at 3D and games. An open weight model just matched the best closed models on the market. Let that sink in.

Bhavy☄️

466,176 просмотров • 15 дней назад

Kimi K3 ranks #6 on ReactBench - It performs better than Opus 4.8 while being over 2x cheaper (!!) - Scores 33%, jump of +10% compared to K2.7 - Lags behind the frontier (Fable and Sol) in frontend production-readiness:
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Kimi K3 ranks #6 on ReactBench - It performs better than Opus 4.8 while being over 2x cheaper (!!) - Scores 33%, jump of +10% compared to K2.7 - Lags behind the frontier (Fable and Sol) in frontend production-readiness:

Aiden Bai

73,692 просмотров • 11 дней назад

> be Kimi Founder > Zhilin Yang. nobody in the West knows your name. > build K1. K2. K2.5. K2.6. K2.7. > each one sets the open-source record > everyone says China can't reach the frontier > raise $2B. hit $20B valuation. > keep your head down. keep shipping. > July 16. drop K3. > 2.8 trillion parameters. > the biggest open model ever released. > 1 million token context. native multimodal. > Kimi Delta Attention — 6.3x faster decoding. > Artificial Analysis ranks it #4 overall. > right behind GPT-5.6 Sol and Fable 5. > open weights July 27. free for anyone. > the closed labs charge for the frontier. > you gave it away. > different game.
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> be Kimi Founder > Zhilin Yang. nobody in the West knows your name. > build K1. K2. K2.5. K2.6. K2.7. > each one sets the open-source record > everyone says China can't reach the frontier > raise $2B. hit $20B valuation. > keep your head down. keep shipping. > July 16. drop K3. > 2.8 trillion parameters. > the biggest open model ever released. > 1 million token context. native multimodal. > Kimi Delta Attention — 6.3x faster decoding. > Artificial Analysis ranks it #4 overall. > right behind GPT-5.6 Sol and Fable 5. > open weights July 27. free for anyone. > the closed labs charge for the frontier. > you gave it away. > different game.

Kirill

412,374 просмотров • 12 дней назад

KIMI K2.6 SERVERS BURN 30 MILLION LITERS OF WATER A MONTH. INDIE DEVS USE THE SAME MODEL FOR $30 IN TOKENS TO LAUNCH $20,000/MONTH APPS IN A WEEKEND kimi k2.6 sits at number 1 on the openrouter leaderboard processing 1.58 trillion tokens a week. more than claude sonnet 4.6 and deepseek combined indie developers who launched in 2024-2025 are making $10,000-20,000 a month solo. no team, no office, $20 in starting costs. most aren't even senior devs the stack is next.js, supabase, stripe and kimi k2.6. you give the model 5 open source repos as reference and it assembles the product from the best parts of each 3,000 paying users at $9.99 a month is $29,970 in revenue. infrastructure costs $1,235. net profit lands at $28,735 with a 95% margin most people will bookmark this and forget. the ones who ship this weekend get a 6-12 month head start in app store rankings over everyone who starts later bookmark this and read the article below
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KIMI K2.6 SERVERS BURN 30 MILLION LITERS OF WATER A MONTH. INDIE DEVS USE THE SAME MODEL FOR $30 IN TOKENS TO LAUNCH $20,000/MONTH APPS IN A WEEKEND kimi k2.6 sits at number 1 on the openrouter leaderboard processing 1.58 trillion tokens a week. more than claude sonnet 4.6 and deepseek combined indie developers who launched in 2024-2025 are making $10,000-20,000 a month solo. no team, no office, $20 in starting costs. most aren't even senior devs the stack is next.js, supabase, stripe and kimi k2.6. you give the model 5 open source repos as reference and it assembles the product from the best parts of each 3,000 paying users at $9.99 a month is $29,970 in revenue. infrastructure costs $1,235. net profit lands at $28,735 with a 95% margin most people will bookmark this and forget. the ones who ship this weekend get a 6-12 month head start in app store rankings over everyone who starts later bookmark this and read the article below

starmex

31,826 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад

We are entering an extremely exciting era for open-weight models. Kimi K2.6 now feels like a top agentic model. I took it for a spin via Fireworks AI fast inference APIs. Kimi K2.6 has impressive agentic capabilities, design skills, and the ability to synthesize large amounts of information. I built a little Skill that produces survey papers on any AI research topic you want. (see example in the clip) You can use the skill to tell your agent to generate a survey on whatever topic and watch it go to work. The artifact was fully generated by Kimi.ai's Kimi K2.6. It's cheap and fast. Next step for me is to explore ways to continue integrating the capabilities of these models on use cases like automating my LLM knowledge bases and augmenting my agent memory capabilities. Stay tuned for more.
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We are entering an extremely exciting era for open-weight models. Kimi K2.6 now feels like a top agentic model. I took it for a spin via Fireworks AI fast inference APIs. Kimi K2.6 has impressive agentic capabilities, design skills, and the ability to synthesize large amounts of information. I built a little Skill that produces survey papers on any AI research topic you want. (see example in the clip) You can use the skill to tell your agent to generate a survey on whatever topic and watch it go to work. The artifact was fully generated by Kimi.ai's Kimi K2.6. It's cheap and fast. Next step for me is to explore ways to continue integrating the capabilities of these models on use cases like automating my LLM knowledge bases and augmenting my agent memory capabilities. Stay tuned for more.

elvis

47,678 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

Claude Opus 4.6 is available for all users in Orchids right now! Tag Orchids with any app idea and we’ll give you 100k in free credits to test it out. Comparisons to Opus 4.5, GPT-5.2-Codex, Gemini 3 Flash, and Kimi K2.5 👇 Prompt: Make me an interactive, 3d model of the solar system.
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Claude Opus 4.6 is available for all users in Orchids right now! Tag Orchids with any app idea and we’ll give you 100k in free credits to test it out. Comparisons to Opus 4.5, GPT-5.2-Codex, Gemini 3 Flash, and Kimi K2.5 👇 Prompt: Make me an interactive, 3d model of the solar system.

Orchids

22,774 просмотров • 5 месяцев назад

KIMI K3 VS OPUS 4.8 SIMULATING A 3D PARTICLE SYSTEM same prompt, same target: thousands of particles reacting to gravity and to each other in real time → K3: more organic distribution, smoother motion, particles actually cluster and drift like something physical → Opus: more rigid pattern, less natural, movement reads more like a grid than a simulation K3: $0.65 in API. Opus 4.8: ~$1.30 this is simulated physics, not just aesthetics, and it's the kind of detail that separates a demo from something you'd actually ship
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KIMI K3 VS OPUS 4.8 SIMULATING A 3D PARTICLE SYSTEM same prompt, same target: thousands of particles reacting to gravity and to each other in real time → K3: more organic distribution, smoother motion, particles actually cluster and drift like something physical → Opus: more rigid pattern, less natural, movement reads more like a grid than a simulation K3: $0.65 in API. Opus 4.8: ~$1.30 this is simulated physics, not just aesthetics, and it's the kind of detail that separates a demo from something you'd actually ship

Jade

32,730 просмотров • 9 дней назад

Kimi K3 vs GPT-5.6 vs Claude Fable 5 A game is one of the hardest places to fake working code. A web app can hide bugs behind a polished screenshot. A game can't. Bad collision, clipping, jitter, broken physics, awkward controls, or a snowboard sinking into the terrain become obvious within seconds. That's why I like using games to evaluate coding models. I gave Kimi K3 a single prompt to build a snowboard game in Godot, and just 20 seconds of gameplay told me more than a page of benchmark scores ever could. Benchmarks matter, but watching a model build something interactive reveals a different side of its capabilities. If the gameplay feels right, the systems work together, and the experience holds up under real input, that's a much more convincing demonstration than any leaderboard.
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Kimi K3 vs GPT-5.6 vs Claude Fable 5 A game is one of the hardest places to fake working code. A web app can hide bugs behind a polished screenshot. A game can't. Bad collision, clipping, jitter, broken physics, awkward controls, or a snowboard sinking into the terrain become obvious within seconds. That's why I like using games to evaluate coding models. I gave Kimi K3 a single prompt to build a snowboard game in Godot, and just 20 seconds of gameplay told me more than a page of benchmark scores ever could. Benchmarks matter, but watching a model build something interactive reveals a different side of its capabilities. If the gameplay feels right, the systems work together, and the experience holds up under real input, that's a much more convincing demonstration than any leaderboard.

FHILY👑

35,933 просмотров • 9 дней назад

Fable 5 totally crushed our new contest, but it cost 6x more than Opus 4.8! We gave 4 models the same prompt: build three self-contained HTML5 canvas scenes with real physics demos Prompts: — A train derailing off a broken bridge into the water — Two cars jumping off ramps and colliding mid-air over a canyon — A monster truck crushing a row of parked cars Outputs: Fable 5: 62,158 tokens, $3.12 GPT 5.5: 37,753 tokens, $1.14 Opus 4.8: 22,280 tokens, $0.56 GLM 5.2: 36,246 tokens, $0.08 Fable 5 did all three scenes at A+. The crashes looked real, things fell and broke the right way, and nothing went through the ground or floated. GPT 5.5 was the closest to Fable. In the Bigfoot show, we think GPT was even a little better. GLM 5.2 did not win any scene, but it was the cheapest by far. Fable is the best pick for quality, but you pay more for it.
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Fable 5 totally crushed our new contest, but it cost 6x more than Opus 4.8! We gave 4 models the same prompt: build three self-contained HTML5 canvas scenes with real physics demos Prompts: — A train derailing off a broken bridge into the water — Two cars jumping off ramps and colliding mid-air over a canyon — A monster truck crushing a row of parked cars Outputs: Fable 5: 62,158 tokens, $3.12 GPT 5.5: 37,753 tokens, $1.14 Opus 4.8: 22,280 tokens, $0.56 GLM 5.2: 36,246 tokens, $0.08 Fable 5 did all three scenes at A+. The crashes looked real, things fell and broke the right way, and nothing went through the ground or floated. GPT 5.5 was the closest to Fable. In the Bigfoot show, we think GPT was even a little better. GLM 5.2 did not win any scene, but it was the cheapest by far. Fable is the best pick for quality, but you pay more for it.

atomic.chat

2,836,089 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

🚨SCIENCE NEWS🚨: An electron doesn’t spit out photons like a gun — it simply strums the cosmic sea like a guitar string.🧨 For decades we have been told that when an electron accelerates it “emits” a photon, as if it magically spits out a separate particle. The process is left mysterious, probabilistic, and disconnected from everyday experience. Uniphics gives a clear, mechanical picture that anyone who has ever dropped a pebble into a pond or plucked a guitar string can understand. An electron is not a little ball or a point particle. It is a gyrotron — a stable spinning structure made of three counterclockwise spin quanta bound together. When this gyrotron accelerates (changes speed or direction), its motion disturbs the surrounding ξM-field sea of unbound energy that fills all space. The disturbance creates transverse spin waves that propagate outward at the local speed of light. Think of it exactly like dropping your finger into a still pond. The ripples that spread out are not separate “water particles” you fired from your finger. They are waves in the water itself. The electron does the same thing. It does not create and launch a separate photon. Its acceleration plucks the ξM-field sea, sending coherent spin waves rippling away. These waves carry the frequency, polarization, and intensity we detect as light. The frequency depends on how rapidly the electron is accelerated, and the polarization depends on the direction of the acceleration relative to the electron’s spin orientation. The same sea that carries these waves also determines how they propagate. In regions of higher energy density the waves slow down (exactly like light slowing when it enters water or glass), which is why light bends around masses and why lenses work. Electric and magnetic fields are simply the cosmic whirlpools created by these spin waves in the sea — transverse disturbances that push and pull other gyrotrons according to their phase alignments. Maxwell’s equations emerge naturally from the mechanics of these spin waves in the ξM-field, with no separate fundamental force required. The fine-structure constant, gauge invariance, and all optical phenomena are direct consequences of how spin waves interfere and propagate through the energy sea. The universe doesn’t need mysterious photon creation rules. It just needs electrons to move through the sea, and the sea responds with ripples. Light is not something the electron “emits.” Light is what the sea sings when an electron plucks it. The same three pillars that explain gravity as a simple push into low-density voids and galactic rotations flat at 220 km/s also turn the production of light into a straightforward wave-mechanics process in flat space. How would quantum electrodynamics and our entire understanding of light change if we stopped saying electrons emit photons and started saying they simply make the cosmic sea sing? A Theory of Everything should be able to answer everything. Uniphics Explained Simply PDF: Chapters 1–10 free: Grokipedia: Grok xAI NASA European Space Agency Brian Cox Sean Carroll Katie Mack Elon Musk #Uniphics #Electromagnetism #SpinWaves #Light #TheoryOfEverything
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🚨SCIENCE NEWS🚨: An electron doesn’t spit out photons like a gun — it simply strums the cosmic sea like a guitar string.🧨 For decades we have been told that when an electron accelerates it “emits” a photon, as if it magically spits out a separate particle. The process is left mysterious, probabilistic, and disconnected from everyday experience. Uniphics gives a clear, mechanical picture that anyone who has ever dropped a pebble into a pond or plucked a guitar string can understand. An electron is not a little ball or a point particle. It is a gyrotron — a stable spinning structure made of three counterclockwise spin quanta bound together. When this gyrotron accelerates (changes speed or direction), its motion disturbs the surrounding ξM-field sea of unbound energy that fills all space. The disturbance creates transverse spin waves that propagate outward at the local speed of light. Think of it exactly like dropping your finger into a still pond. The ripples that spread out are not separate “water particles” you fired from your finger. They are waves in the water itself. The electron does the same thing. It does not create and launch a separate photon. Its acceleration plucks the ξM-field sea, sending coherent spin waves rippling away. These waves carry the frequency, polarization, and intensity we detect as light. The frequency depends on how rapidly the electron is accelerated, and the polarization depends on the direction of the acceleration relative to the electron’s spin orientation. The same sea that carries these waves also determines how they propagate. In regions of higher energy density the waves slow down (exactly like light slowing when it enters water or glass), which is why light bends around masses and why lenses work. Electric and magnetic fields are simply the cosmic whirlpools created by these spin waves in the sea — transverse disturbances that push and pull other gyrotrons according to their phase alignments. Maxwell’s equations emerge naturally from the mechanics of these spin waves in the ξM-field, with no separate fundamental force required. The fine-structure constant, gauge invariance, and all optical phenomena are direct consequences of how spin waves interfere and propagate through the energy sea. The universe doesn’t need mysterious photon creation rules. It just needs electrons to move through the sea, and the sea responds with ripples. Light is not something the electron “emits.” Light is what the sea sings when an electron plucks it. The same three pillars that explain gravity as a simple push into low-density voids and galactic rotations flat at 220 km/s also turn the production of light into a straightforward wave-mechanics process in flat space. How would quantum electrodynamics and our entire understanding of light change if we stopped saying electrons emit photons and started saying they simply make the cosmic sea sing? A Theory of Everything should be able to answer everything. Uniphics Explained Simply PDF: Chapters 1–10 free: Grokipedia: Grok xAI NASA European Space Agency Brian Cox Sean Carroll Katie Mack Elon Musk #Uniphics #Electromagnetism #SpinWaves #Light #TheoryOfEverything

Paul Maley

67,508 просмотров • 4 месяцев назад

Does LLM really need to be a helpful assistant all the time? No. If you want to simulate people, “perfectly helpful” could be the wrong objective. Meet OdysSim, a journey toward LLMs beyond assistants, as behavioral foundation models (10B tokens of real human behavior; 23 sim benchmarks, finally in one place. new open models: outperform or on par with GPT-5.5, Gemini 3.1, or Claude Opus 4.7 in many behavior-sim dimensions). Human behavior simulation is becoming essential. Agent evaluation needs realistic users before real users show up. Medical and classroom training need realistic patients and students. Social science needs synthetic participants at scale. But real people are not ideal assistants. Real patients panic or ignore good advice. Real students misunderstand. Real customers are vague, picky, impatient, or simply leave. Human behavior is messy, diverse, and often imperfect. Frontier LLMs are getting better at math, code, and long-horizon tasks. They are NOT getting better at simulating human behavior. If anything, they drift the other way: more assistant-ish, more homogeneous, fewer of the errors and quirks real humans show. This is no accident. The whole pipeline is built for helpfulness and task success, not behavioral realism. And you can't prompt your way out of that. So we rethink the recipe from scratch and release: 🧠 The OdysSim corpus: 21.4M real human interactions (~10B tokens) from 62 sources, every conversation retrofitted with social grounding (who is talking, and why) 📏 SOUL-Index: 23 human-behavior benchmarks unified into one suite across 5 axes 🤖 OSim-8B: open weights; tops more SOUL-Index benchmarks than any frontier model, acts more like a real user than any of them on τ-bench (nearly matching real humans in the reaction dimension), and writes far more human-like text along the way.
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Does LLM really need to be a helpful assistant all the time? No. If you want to simulate people, “perfectly helpful” could be the wrong objective. Meet OdysSim, a journey toward LLMs beyond assistants, as behavioral foundation models (10B tokens of real human behavior; 23 sim benchmarks, finally in one place. new open models: outperform or on par with GPT-5.5, Gemini 3.1, or Claude Opus 4.7 in many behavior-sim dimensions). Human behavior simulation is becoming essential. Agent evaluation needs realistic users before real users show up. Medical and classroom training need realistic patients and students. Social science needs synthetic participants at scale. But real people are not ideal assistants. Real patients panic or ignore good advice. Real students misunderstand. Real customers are vague, picky, impatient, or simply leave. Human behavior is messy, diverse, and often imperfect. Frontier LLMs are getting better at math, code, and long-horizon tasks. They are NOT getting better at simulating human behavior. If anything, they drift the other way: more assistant-ish, more homogeneous, fewer of the errors and quirks real humans show. This is no accident. The whole pipeline is built for helpfulness and task success, not behavioral realism. And you can't prompt your way out of that. So we rethink the recipe from scratch and release: 🧠 The OdysSim corpus: 21.4M real human interactions (~10B tokens) from 62 sources, every conversation retrofitted with social grounding (who is talking, and why) 📏 SOUL-Index: 23 human-behavior benchmarks unified into one suite across 5 axes 🤖 OSim-8B: open weights; tops more SOUL-Index benchmarks than any frontier model, acts more like a real user than any of them on τ-bench (nearly matching real humans in the reaction dimension), and writes far more human-like text along the way.

Xuhui Zhou

141,371 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

An Anthropic engineer watched me trade from across the table at a WeWork in SF I had my laptop open. Four agents running. Green charts. Live trades scrolling. He was on a Zoom call. Muted himself. Walked over. "Are you running Claude against live prediction markets right now" I told him. Claude Code. Two repos. $25 a month. He pulled up a chair. "I helped build the model you're using. I've never seen anyone wire it to live trades like this" I showed him the dataset. 86 million trades. Every wallet. Every entry. Every exit. He stared at it. "We tested this internally. You give Claude a dataset and don't tell it what to look for. It finds the winning wallets. Then it finds WHY they win. Then it copies the pattern. We never shipped it because legal killed it" I told him I did exactly that. One weekend. Claude Code found the exit logic on its own. Top wallets exit before resolution 91% of the time. They capture 86% of expected value. Cut losers at 12%. Everyone else captures 58% and holds to 41%. "That's the exact finding from our internal eval. Except ours took a team of eight and four months" I showed him the scanner. Three commands. 500+ markets. No API key. Claude scores them all in 20 minutes. "You're using our model to beat markets we're not allowed to touch. On infra that costs less than my lunch" My setup: Claude API - $20/mo VPS - $5/mo poly_data - free polymarket-cli - free 214 trades. 74% win rate. +$9,400. 19 days. I showed him the full breakdown. Every repo. Every command. Every dollar. Copytrade here: He read it for five minutes. Then looked up. "If my manager sees this he's going to lose his mind. You just proved our model works in production and we've been sitting on it for a year" He DM'd me that night. "Take this down before someone at Anthropic finds it" Too late.
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An Anthropic engineer watched me trade from across the table at a WeWork in SF I had my laptop open. Four agents running. Green charts. Live trades scrolling. He was on a Zoom call. Muted himself. Walked over. "Are you running Claude against live prediction markets right now" I told him. Claude Code. Two repos. $25 a month. He pulled up a chair. "I helped build the model you're using. I've never seen anyone wire it to live trades like this" I showed him the dataset. 86 million trades. Every wallet. Every entry. Every exit. He stared at it. "We tested this internally. You give Claude a dataset and don't tell it what to look for. It finds the winning wallets. Then it finds WHY they win. Then it copies the pattern. We never shipped it because legal killed it" I told him I did exactly that. One weekend. Claude Code found the exit logic on its own. Top wallets exit before resolution 91% of the time. They capture 86% of expected value. Cut losers at 12%. Everyone else captures 58% and holds to 41%. "That's the exact finding from our internal eval. Except ours took a team of eight and four months" I showed him the scanner. Three commands. 500+ markets. No API key. Claude scores them all in 20 minutes. "You're using our model to beat markets we're not allowed to touch. On infra that costs less than my lunch" My setup: Claude API - $20/mo VPS - $5/mo poly_data - free polymarket-cli - free 214 trades. 74% win rate. +$9,400. 19 days. I showed him the full breakdown. Every repo. Every command. Every dollar. Copytrade here: He read it for five minutes. Then looked up. "If my manager sees this he's going to lose his mind. You just proved our model works in production and we've been sitting on it for a year" He DM'd me that night. "Take this down before someone at Anthropic finds it" Too late.

Lunar

223,989 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

I learned this the hard way: do NOT use SwiftUI if you want your app to look and feel amazing. At least when coding with AI. (sorry, Apple colleagues reading this 😅) I'm sharing my process vibe coding this calorie tracker. I get a lot of questions about the fluid transition in the video. Here's the whole story. Initially, Claude built the grid with SwiftUI. It was quick and easy, and looked good! But the transition to the day view was a boring navigation push/pop. No fun. I wanted something custom. I asked Claude to make it a fluid transition that remaps the food tiles from their source to destination positions. All hell broke loose. Claude tried a bunch of horrible things. Initially it used matched geometry effects, which worked OK but didn't lend themselves well to gesture-driven animations. So it resorted to SwiftUI preference keys + geometry readers to figure out the source and destination positions and calculate the interpolated position based on gesture progress, coordinating across grid and day views. But this meant it had to write a custom layout because it couldn't reposition tiles inside the native SwiftUI grid. And it had to do an awkward handoff between views, which always created ugly pops or jumps. And don't get me started on trying to put it on a bouncy spring, that only made the math 10x buggier. Fortunately, Claude Fable was smart enough to see that this was becoming a disaster (and discover most of the issues itself, in the simulator), so it pivoted away from SwiftUI. Opus might not be so wise, so you'll have to pay attention and intervene. Ultimately, it rewrote it in plain UIKit and everything turned out great. After that, we moved from 2D images to 3D assets, which introduced a new set of performance challenges and yet another rewrite to a single Metal layer, which is what you see below. I can write more about the 2D-to-3D saga if anyone's interested. If I were to do it again, I'd just say "Don't use SwiftUI" from the very first prompt, and save a few hours of headaches. SwiftUI can be amazing for a human iterating directly in code. But agents don't benefit from any of its advantages. Plus, agents have seen decades of UIKit training data, so they're great at writing it, and it's far more flexible. Here's hoping we see more agent-friendly iterations of SwiftUI in the future. Till then, I'm probably going to avoid it.
0:12

I learned this the hard way: do NOT use SwiftUI if you want your app to look and feel amazing. At least when coding with AI. (sorry, Apple colleagues reading this 😅) I'm sharing my process vibe coding this calorie tracker. I get a lot of questions about the fluid transition in the video. Here's the whole story. Initially, Claude built the grid with SwiftUI. It was quick and easy, and looked good! But the transition to the day view was a boring navigation push/pop. No fun. I wanted something custom. I asked Claude to make it a fluid transition that remaps the food tiles from their source to destination positions. All hell broke loose. Claude tried a bunch of horrible things. Initially it used matched geometry effects, which worked OK but didn't lend themselves well to gesture-driven animations. So it resorted to SwiftUI preference keys + geometry readers to figure out the source and destination positions and calculate the interpolated position based on gesture progress, coordinating across grid and day views. But this meant it had to write a custom layout because it couldn't reposition tiles inside the native SwiftUI grid. And it had to do an awkward handoff between views, which always created ugly pops or jumps. And don't get me started on trying to put it on a bouncy spring, that only made the math 10x buggier. Fortunately, Claude Fable was smart enough to see that this was becoming a disaster (and discover most of the issues itself, in the simulator), so it pivoted away from SwiftUI. Opus might not be so wise, so you'll have to pay attention and intervene. Ultimately, it rewrote it in plain UIKit and everything turned out great. After that, we moved from 2D images to 3D assets, which introduced a new set of performance challenges and yet another rewrite to a single Metal layer, which is what you see below. I can write more about the 2D-to-3D saga if anyone's interested. If I were to do it again, I'd just say "Don't use SwiftUI" from the very first prompt, and save a few hours of headaches. SwiftUI can be amazing for a human iterating directly in code. But agents don't benefit from any of its advantages. Plus, agents have seen decades of UIKit training data, so they're great at writing it, and it's far more flexible. Here's hoping we see more agent-friendly iterations of SwiftUI in the future. Till then, I'm probably going to avoid it.

Anshu

111,763 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

Made with Seednace 2 Prompt: CAMERA: DV 16mm tape camcorder handheld footage feel. Point of view of CHASE holding the camera directly in hand. Maintain hand shake, misaligned framing, delayed focus pull, clumsy zoom in/out, occasional self-cam framing where the face gets cut off, and imperfect shots that lose the subject. Every shot is CHASE holding the camcorder herself, filming in selfie-cam or first-person style. The camcorder itself never appears on screen. LOOK: DV 16mm tape camcorder footage look. Soft, slightly blurry digital tape quality, faint tape noise, highlights that bloom slightly in low light, auto-exposure that flickers subtly, muted color contrast, realistic skin tones. STYLE: Late-night, low-energy-but-happy vibe — tired but satisfied after a long practice session. Handheld throughout, quieter and slower than a bubbly daytime vlog, occasional heavy breathing between lines, genuine unposed exhaustion mixed with pride. Character CHASE — a Korean idol in her 20s. Long straight black hair tied up or slightly messy from practice, elegant yet lovely Korean features, glowing skin with a light sheen of sweat, big eyes. Slim build. Wearing a modest long-sleeve athletic top and loose-fit joggers or sweatpants, fully covered arms and torso, sneakers. No jewelry. Setting An empty dance practice studio late at night — mirror walls lining one side, wooden floor, a speaker in the corner, a water bottle and towel by the wall, dim overhead lighting with the hallway lights off outside the studio windows. Storyboard (~2s, propped camera against the mirror, medium shot) She walks into frame, breathing a little heavy, wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, small tired smile. CHASE: "Okay... just finished practice, it's so late." (~2s, handheld, slow pan across the room) Camera drifts across the empty mirror wall and the quiet studio, then back to her. CHASE (off-screen, softly): "Whole place is empty now, just me." (~2s, medium handheld, by the wall) She grabs her water bottle, takes a long sip, exhales in relief afterward. CHASE: "Needed that so bad." (~1.5s, macro insert, shallow DOF) Close-up on her hand wiping condensation off the water bottle, a drop of sweat catching the light. No dialogue — soft breathing sound only. (~2s, medium handheld, facing the mirror) She sets the camera down propped against the wall, steps back, and does a few quick, sharp dance moves — a short combo tease — then laughs at herself afterward. (~2s, handheld, close on her face) She fans herself with her hand, cheeks flushed, hair slightly damp, grinning at the lens. CHASE: "Okay that took more out of me than I thought." (~1.5s, quick punch-in, tight selfie) She leans in close, still catching her breath, eyes bright despite the tiredness. CHASE (softly): "But it felt good though." (~2s, arm's-length selfie finish) She grabs her towel, drapes it over her shoulder, gives the lens a small tired wave and a genuine smile before reaching to end the recording. CHASE (quietly): "Okay, going home. Night guys."
0:15

Made with Seednace 2 Prompt: CAMERA: DV 16mm tape camcorder handheld footage feel. Point of view of CHASE holding the camera directly in hand. Maintain hand shake, misaligned framing, delayed focus pull, clumsy zoom in/out, occasional self-cam framing where the face gets cut off, and imperfect shots that lose the subject. Every shot is CHASE holding the camcorder herself, filming in selfie-cam or first-person style. The camcorder itself never appears on screen. LOOK: DV 16mm tape camcorder footage look. Soft, slightly blurry digital tape quality, faint tape noise, highlights that bloom slightly in low light, auto-exposure that flickers subtly, muted color contrast, realistic skin tones. STYLE: Late-night, low-energy-but-happy vibe — tired but satisfied after a long practice session. Handheld throughout, quieter and slower than a bubbly daytime vlog, occasional heavy breathing between lines, genuine unposed exhaustion mixed with pride. Character CHASE — a Korean idol in her 20s. Long straight black hair tied up or slightly messy from practice, elegant yet lovely Korean features, glowing skin with a light sheen of sweat, big eyes. Slim build. Wearing a modest long-sleeve athletic top and loose-fit joggers or sweatpants, fully covered arms and torso, sneakers. No jewelry. Setting An empty dance practice studio late at night — mirror walls lining one side, wooden floor, a speaker in the corner, a water bottle and towel by the wall, dim overhead lighting with the hallway lights off outside the studio windows. Storyboard (~2s, propped camera against the mirror, medium shot) She walks into frame, breathing a little heavy, wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, small tired smile. CHASE: "Okay... just finished practice, it's so late." (~2s, handheld, slow pan across the room) Camera drifts across the empty mirror wall and the quiet studio, then back to her. CHASE (off-screen, softly): "Whole place is empty now, just me." (~2s, medium handheld, by the wall) She grabs her water bottle, takes a long sip, exhales in relief afterward. CHASE: "Needed that so bad." (~1.5s, macro insert, shallow DOF) Close-up on her hand wiping condensation off the water bottle, a drop of sweat catching the light. No dialogue — soft breathing sound only. (~2s, medium handheld, facing the mirror) She sets the camera down propped against the wall, steps back, and does a few quick, sharp dance moves — a short combo tease — then laughs at herself afterward. (~2s, handheld, close on her face) She fans herself with her hand, cheeks flushed, hair slightly damp, grinning at the lens. CHASE: "Okay that took more out of me than I thought." (~1.5s, quick punch-in, tight selfie) She leans in close, still catching her breath, eyes bright despite the tiredness. CHASE (softly): "But it felt good though." (~2s, arm's-length selfie finish) She grabs her towel, drapes it over her shoulder, gives the lens a small tired wave and a genuine smile before reaching to end the recording. CHASE (quietly): "Okay, going home. Night guys."

WasifAI

96,495 просмотров • 12 дней назад

🧵 Israel strikes its rebellious puppet in Syria - dark days ahead Jolani’s Delusion: The Man Who Sold Syria to Israel for Nothing July 9th. The US and 19 allies are conducting a live military drill near Australia with a view of a coordinated attack against China our — but forget that for now. Something bigger exploded this morning (July 16th 2025). Israel launched a decapitation strike against Syria’s de facto ruler, Jolani. Yes — that Jolani, the man who had bent over backwards to please Israel, the one who handed over the Golan Heights with a smile, promising “permanent peace.” And yet? They still came for him. Let’s rewind. When Assad’s regime collapsed back in December 2024, the whole of Syria fell into chaos. Jolani, a former terrorist with deep roots in al-Qaeda and Issis, seized Damascus within a week. But taking the capital didn’t mean owning the country. Syria became a jungle of warlords. In the southwest, Israel moved fast. Armored brigades swept in and annexed the eastern Golan Heights, calling it a “buffer zone” — as if the whole world hadn’t seen this playbook before. To understand why Israel will never let go of the Golan Heights, you have to understand what the Golan is. It is not just a piece of land. It is a perch, a watchtower, a faucet, a promise. From those heights, you can see half of Syria. Before 1967, Syrian artillery rained down on Israeli farms from that high ground. After 1967, Israeli tanks dug in and never left. And why would they? The Golan is water. It feeds the Sea of Galilee, the Jordan River, and the underground aquifers that keep Israel alive. Some say nearly half of Israel’s fresh water still trickles down from those slopes. In a region where rain is rare and rivers dry, that makes the Golan as precious as oil. But there’s something deeper still. The Golan is theology. The Golan is destiny. For the religious wing of Likud, for those who still read maps with the Book of Genesis in one hand, the Golan is part of the inheritance God gave Abraham — “from the river of Egypt to the great river, the Euphrates.” This land was promised. And what is promised cannot be returned. Not to Assad. Not to Jolani. Not to anyone. So now that Syria lies broken, now that Jolani begs and grovels, now that the widow has no protector — Israel sees its chance. And it will not look away. By January 205, Jolani tried to claw some legitimacy back. He had personal reasons — he was born in the Golan Heights — but also national ones. A president who gives up sovereign territory and says nothing? That’s not a leader. So he went to the UN. Israel scoffed. He proposed a “land-for-legitimacy” deal — asking to get back a third of the Golan Heights, lease another third, and in return recognize Israeli sovereignty over the rest. A humiliating offer for Syria — and Israel still slapped him across the face. “How dare you propose such a deal? You? You’re nothing. All of Golan Heights is ours. Try take it back if you can. To hell with UN and international law” The same man who had once survived the Abu Ghraib black prison walked out of that hell with a bruised face — and a boiling mind. But he is eerily tame in front of the Israelis. Not characteristic of a brutal terrorist. By March, Jolani pivoted. If Israel wouldn’t listen, maybe Turkey would. Jolani made his pitch with eloquent urgency — the kind of urgency a man uses when he knows the fire is already at his doorstep. “Syria,” he told the Turks, “isn’t just a country. It’s a buffer. Between you and Israel. And once we’re gone, the buffer is gone. Then it’s just you and them, staring across a line drawn in sand.” He leaned in. “You think Israel won’t come for you? Maybe not today. But one day, they will. And your pipelines, your ports, your Black Sea dreams — all of it will be within range.”
0:16

🧵 Israel strikes its rebellious puppet in Syria - dark days ahead Jolani’s Delusion: The Man Who Sold Syria to Israel for Nothing July 9th. The US and 19 allies are conducting a live military drill near Australia with a view of a coordinated attack against China our — but forget that for now. Something bigger exploded this morning (July 16th 2025). Israel launched a decapitation strike against Syria’s de facto ruler, Jolani. Yes — that Jolani, the man who had bent over backwards to please Israel, the one who handed over the Golan Heights with a smile, promising “permanent peace.” And yet? They still came for him. Let’s rewind. When Assad’s regime collapsed back in December 2024, the whole of Syria fell into chaos. Jolani, a former terrorist with deep roots in al-Qaeda and Issis, seized Damascus within a week. But taking the capital didn’t mean owning the country. Syria became a jungle of warlords. In the southwest, Israel moved fast. Armored brigades swept in and annexed the eastern Golan Heights, calling it a “buffer zone” — as if the whole world hadn’t seen this playbook before. To understand why Israel will never let go of the Golan Heights, you have to understand what the Golan is. It is not just a piece of land. It is a perch, a watchtower, a faucet, a promise. From those heights, you can see half of Syria. Before 1967, Syrian artillery rained down on Israeli farms from that high ground. After 1967, Israeli tanks dug in and never left. And why would they? The Golan is water. It feeds the Sea of Galilee, the Jordan River, and the underground aquifers that keep Israel alive. Some say nearly half of Israel’s fresh water still trickles down from those slopes. In a region where rain is rare and rivers dry, that makes the Golan as precious as oil. But there’s something deeper still. The Golan is theology. The Golan is destiny. For the religious wing of Likud, for those who still read maps with the Book of Genesis in one hand, the Golan is part of the inheritance God gave Abraham — “from the river of Egypt to the great river, the Euphrates.” This land was promised. And what is promised cannot be returned. Not to Assad. Not to Jolani. Not to anyone. So now that Syria lies broken, now that Jolani begs and grovels, now that the widow has no protector — Israel sees its chance. And it will not look away. By January 205, Jolani tried to claw some legitimacy back. He had personal reasons — he was born in the Golan Heights — but also national ones. A president who gives up sovereign territory and says nothing? That’s not a leader. So he went to the UN. Israel scoffed. He proposed a “land-for-legitimacy” deal — asking to get back a third of the Golan Heights, lease another third, and in return recognize Israeli sovereignty over the rest. A humiliating offer for Syria — and Israel still slapped him across the face. “How dare you propose such a deal? You? You’re nothing. All of Golan Heights is ours. Try take it back if you can. To hell with UN and international law” The same man who had once survived the Abu Ghraib black prison walked out of that hell with a bruised face — and a boiling mind. But he is eerily tame in front of the Israelis. Not characteristic of a brutal terrorist. By March, Jolani pivoted. If Israel wouldn’t listen, maybe Turkey would. Jolani made his pitch with eloquent urgency — the kind of urgency a man uses when he knows the fire is already at his doorstep. “Syria,” he told the Turks, “isn’t just a country. It’s a buffer. Between you and Israel. And once we’re gone, the buffer is gone. Then it’s just you and them, staring across a line drawn in sand.” He leaned in. “You think Israel won’t come for you? Maybe not today. But one day, they will. And your pipelines, your ports, your Black Sea dreams — all of it will be within range.”

America-China Watcher

18,777 просмотров • 1 год назад

The World Cup ends today. One game left. By tomorrow most of you visitors will be packing up, heading to the airport, going home. So before you go, let me say the thing I actually want to say. A few weeks ago I wrote a silly post about all the things you were discovering here. Free refills. Free water. Ice like civilized people. Chips and salsa before you even order. Air conditioning that is a fact and not a moral debate. Drive-throughs. Ranch by the gallon. The Germans standing in the HEB meat aisle in reverent silence, finally understanding why we do not have trains. Buc-ee’s, for which there are still no words. It blew up, because it was true, and because you were so delightfully stunned by all of it. Even the Wall Street Journal caught on. Their headline this week: how the US lost the World Cup and won over the world. We did not lift the trophy. But apparently we lifted something else. We even learned a few things about ourselves along the way. Like the fact that Elon Musk, the single richest man on the planet, shops at HEB. Just rolls in and queues up for fresh tortillas with everybody else. The man could buy the tortilla company, the state it is in, and the moon it sits under, and instead he is standing in line at the hot-tortilla counter like the rest of us, because that is where the good ones are. Only in America is the wealthiest human alive elbow to elbow with a mom of four at the salsa bar. That is the whole country in one aisle. And here is the part I want every one of you to hear on your way out the door. None of it was a show. We did not roll all this out because you were coming. The ice was always there. The refills were always free. The grocery stores were always the size of aircraft hangars at ten on a Tuesday. The stranger who adopted your whole section, the guy who gave you a ride, the waitress who remembered your order, the family that invited you to the cookout, that is not World Cup America. That is just America. That is Tuesday. We are exactly like this when nobody is visiting. Loud, generous, ridiculous, overfed, and genuinely thrilled you came. We will still be exactly like this tomorrow when the stands are empty and the flags come down. So thank you. To everyone who came, who sang in our streets, who cleaned our stadiums, who turned our cities orange and filled our bars and taught us your chants. You were wonderful guests, and you made a country that just turned 250 feel young and seen and loved. And to everyone who could not make it this time, the door does not close today. We meant all of it. Come whenever. The porch light stays on, the fridge stays full, and there is always room for one more at the table. You found out who we are these last few weeks. Good news. We are like this all the time. Safe travels home. Y’all come back now, you hear. 🦋
0:15

The World Cup ends today. One game left. By tomorrow most of you visitors will be packing up, heading to the airport, going home. So before you go, let me say the thing I actually want to say. A few weeks ago I wrote a silly post about all the things you were discovering here. Free refills. Free water. Ice like civilized people. Chips and salsa before you even order. Air conditioning that is a fact and not a moral debate. Drive-throughs. Ranch by the gallon. The Germans standing in the HEB meat aisle in reverent silence, finally understanding why we do not have trains. Buc-ee’s, for which there are still no words. It blew up, because it was true, and because you were so delightfully stunned by all of it. Even the Wall Street Journal caught on. Their headline this week: how the US lost the World Cup and won over the world. We did not lift the trophy. But apparently we lifted something else. We even learned a few things about ourselves along the way. Like the fact that Elon Musk, the single richest man on the planet, shops at HEB. Just rolls in and queues up for fresh tortillas with everybody else. The man could buy the tortilla company, the state it is in, and the moon it sits under, and instead he is standing in line at the hot-tortilla counter like the rest of us, because that is where the good ones are. Only in America is the wealthiest human alive elbow to elbow with a mom of four at the salsa bar. That is the whole country in one aisle. And here is the part I want every one of you to hear on your way out the door. None of it was a show. We did not roll all this out because you were coming. The ice was always there. The refills were always free. The grocery stores were always the size of aircraft hangars at ten on a Tuesday. The stranger who adopted your whole section, the guy who gave you a ride, the waitress who remembered your order, the family that invited you to the cookout, that is not World Cup America. That is just America. That is Tuesday. We are exactly like this when nobody is visiting. Loud, generous, ridiculous, overfed, and genuinely thrilled you came. We will still be exactly like this tomorrow when the stands are empty and the flags come down. So thank you. To everyone who came, who sang in our streets, who cleaned our stadiums, who turned our cities orange and filled our bars and taught us your chants. You were wonderful guests, and you made a country that just turned 250 feel young and seen and loved. And to everyone who could not make it this time, the door does not close today. We meant all of it. Come whenever. The porch light stays on, the fridge stays full, and there is always room for one more at the table. You found out who we are these last few weeks. Good news. We are like this all the time. Safe travels home. Y’all come back now, you hear. 🦋

Selene Mariposa

249,603 просмотров • 12 дней назад

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.
0:10

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

SiriusB

15,437 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

AI creations are becoming more impressive, but the most interesting part is often what happens behind the scenes. Higgsfield has open-sourced its Originals, giving creators access to the prompts, references, and workflows behind these AI films. Now you can see how these creations come together, explore the process, and learn from the techniques behind them. Prompt for this video: Style: 8K IMAX, traditional hand-drawn 2D animation, animated on twos at 12 frames per second — each drawing held for two frames then replaced, choppy stepped motion cadence, visible pose-to-pose timing, distinct keyframe drawings with no smooth in-between interpolation, hand-painted oil-brush texture on every drawing, brushstrokes shifting and redrawn from frame to frame, line jitter and boil between frames. No 3D render, no game engine, no CGI smoothness. The 12 principles of animation throughout: anticipation, squash and stretch, follow-through and overlapping action, slow in/slow out, arcs, secondary action, exaggeration, solid drawing — applied to every element including wolf bodies, clothing, breath, and snow particles. Cinematography: Lubezki / Deakins. Aggressively handheld inside the scene — constant restless shake and jitter every frame, jerky bounce, frame buffeted sideways by gusts, sharp reframing jolts, breathing sway. Horizon never perfectly level. Never gimbal-smooth, never tripod, never dolly, never crane, never aerial. Wide anamorphic approximately 24mm. Shallow depth of field. Camera eye level or below. CHARACTER REFERENCE IS ABSOLUTE — faces and designs from reference images exactly 1-to-1. Reference always overrides text description. CHARACTER TAGS: - THE MOTHER = woman from >>. Bundle clamped to her chest in one arm, the bundle a dark non-glowing shape, faint pale grey breath vapor torn off by the wind, no glow. - THE TODDLER = small girl from >>. Name Umai. - THE WOLVES = animals from >>. Each wolf stands roughly half a human's height at the shoulder. Body length from head to tail equals approximately one full human height. Large, heavy, and low to the ground. - THE FOREST = location from >>. Lighting: no light source, no moon, no stars, no rim light, no contre-jour, no key light. Flat dim diffuse ambient grey-white glow only — no direction, no gradient shading. Flat painted shapes. All forms read as dark silhouettes or mid-grey against white atmosphere. Atmosphere: violent blizzard continuous every frame. Snow driven horizontally. Visibility approximately 3 meters. Rolling white-out waves sweeping the lens. Wind never drops. Hair and robe ends stream sideways with full follow-through and overlapping action. Audio: dominant roaring blizzard wind. THE MOTHER's trembling breath close. Distant low wolf howl buried under wind, barely audible in Shot 2D. No dialogue. No music. No subtitles. SHOT 2C — EXTREME CLOSE-UP handheld on THE MOTHER's eyes. Duration: 3 seconds. COMPOSITION: asymmetric — forbidden: any centered or symmetric framing. One eye occupies the left two-thirds of frame. The other eye cut by the right frame edge — only the inner corner visible. Slight Dutch angle tilt. Lashes ice-crusted and heavy. Whites faintly red-veined from cold and wind. Main eye narrowed, gazing off-screen into far distance below frame. ACTION on twos: eyeball in micro left-right tracking movement — pause — pupils contract sharply — the instant of recognition — eyelids flutter slightly in two held frames — jaw corner tightens off-frame, visible only as a tension in the cheek — breath vapor drifts across the lower corner of frame, torn sideways by wind. Constant handheld micro-shake throughout. A rolling wave of buran briefly obscures the frame. Animated on twos. HARD CUT TO SHOT 2D — WIDE SHOT handheld — wolf pack as shadow mass — distance mode. Duration: approx. 8 seconds. COMPOSITION: asymmetric — forbidden: centered framing. Camera positioned within the tree line, offset to the left. Dense tree trunks occupy and crowd the right third of frame. Open space to the left. Depth axis shifted right, not centered. Wolf pack drives into frame from the lower right — mass heaviest on the right side, left edge showing only sparse fringe and trailing edge. THE PACK — approximately two hundred wolves. They do not exist as individual animals. NOT smoke, NOT mist, NOT vapor — the pack has mass, weight, and momentum. The entire pack moves as a single body of dark water surging downhill — liquid with density and pressure behind it, not diffuse or drifting. It is also shadow: it swallows light rather than reflects it, leaving a presence darker than everything around it in the flat grey-white atmosphere. Water and shadow — these two qualities together, never smoke. Movement pace: swift and relentless — faster than expected for something so massive, the speed of a flash flood or a river breaking its banks, not slow and rolling. The mass covers ground urgently, with weight and velocity combined. Mass density clearly differentiated: the core is near-opaque dense black like deep water — solid, heavy, light-swallowing — toward the edges it thins like water spreading at its margins, individual silhouettes briefly legible at the fringe then reabsorbed into the core. The edge is not soft or diffuse like smoke — it is the ragged turbulent edge of moving water. Large waves and small waves alternating with speed: heavy large waves surge and crest — small fast wave-crests explode between them. White teeth are the only thing in frame that does not belong to the shadow — solid, material, flashing simultaneously at multiple points as wave-crests break, then swallowed back. Skull outlines breach the surface and are pulled under like objects in fast current. Charcoal black with deep navy-blue sheen. Amber-yellow eye-points ignite in clusters in the darkness then extinguish in batches like bioluminescence in black water. Black water flood pours between the tree trunks — trunks submerged by black then re-emerging as the mass passes. Contrast: white blizzard / black wolf mass — white fear, black death. Camera near-still, breathing micro-shake only — as if the observer has instinctively stopped breathing. Animated on twos. Constraints: wolf pack is NEVER smoke, mist, or vapor — it has mass, weight, density, and speed — it is water and shadow. Wolf pack is NEVER a collection of individually animated animals — always a single fluid mass. DISTANCE MODE: mass coherence is absolute, individual wolves do not detach or become readable as separate figures. White teeth are the ONLY non-shadow element within the pack mass. Amber-yellow eye-points appear and extinguish in clusters, never individually. No warm light source anywhere in any frame. No rim light, no backlight, no moonlight — flat grey-white diffuse ambient only. No amber glow from forest reference applied. Camera handheld throughout — never stabilized, never smooth. Animated on twos throughout, no interpolation. 11 seconds total. 12fps. 8K. No music. SFX only. No subtitles. No 3D.
0:15

AI creations are becoming more impressive, but the most interesting part is often what happens behind the scenes. Higgsfield has open-sourced its Originals, giving creators access to the prompts, references, and workflows behind these AI films. Now you can see how these creations come together, explore the process, and learn from the techniques behind them. Prompt for this video: Style: 8K IMAX, traditional hand-drawn 2D animation, animated on twos at 12 frames per second — each drawing held for two frames then replaced, choppy stepped motion cadence, visible pose-to-pose timing, distinct keyframe drawings with no smooth in-between interpolation, hand-painted oil-brush texture on every drawing, brushstrokes shifting and redrawn from frame to frame, line jitter and boil between frames. No 3D render, no game engine, no CGI smoothness. The 12 principles of animation throughout: anticipation, squash and stretch, follow-through and overlapping action, slow in/slow out, arcs, secondary action, exaggeration, solid drawing — applied to every element including wolf bodies, clothing, breath, and snow particles. Cinematography: Lubezki / Deakins. Aggressively handheld inside the scene — constant restless shake and jitter every frame, jerky bounce, frame buffeted sideways by gusts, sharp reframing jolts, breathing sway. Horizon never perfectly level. Never gimbal-smooth, never tripod, never dolly, never crane, never aerial. Wide anamorphic approximately 24mm. Shallow depth of field. Camera eye level or below. CHARACTER REFERENCE IS ABSOLUTE — faces and designs from reference images exactly 1-to-1. Reference always overrides text description. CHARACTER TAGS: - THE MOTHER = woman from >>. Bundle clamped to her chest in one arm, the bundle a dark non-glowing shape, faint pale grey breath vapor torn off by the wind, no glow. - THE TODDLER = small girl from >>. Name Umai. - THE WOLVES = animals from >>. Each wolf stands roughly half a human's height at the shoulder. Body length from head to tail equals approximately one full human height. Large, heavy, and low to the ground. - THE FOREST = location from >>. Lighting: no light source, no moon, no stars, no rim light, no contre-jour, no key light. Flat dim diffuse ambient grey-white glow only — no direction, no gradient shading. Flat painted shapes. All forms read as dark silhouettes or mid-grey against white atmosphere. Atmosphere: violent blizzard continuous every frame. Snow driven horizontally. Visibility approximately 3 meters. Rolling white-out waves sweeping the lens. Wind never drops. Hair and robe ends stream sideways with full follow-through and overlapping action. Audio: dominant roaring blizzard wind. THE MOTHER's trembling breath close. Distant low wolf howl buried under wind, barely audible in Shot 2D. No dialogue. No music. No subtitles. SHOT 2C — EXTREME CLOSE-UP handheld on THE MOTHER's eyes. Duration: 3 seconds. COMPOSITION: asymmetric — forbidden: any centered or symmetric framing. One eye occupies the left two-thirds of frame. The other eye cut by the right frame edge — only the inner corner visible. Slight Dutch angle tilt. Lashes ice-crusted and heavy. Whites faintly red-veined from cold and wind. Main eye narrowed, gazing off-screen into far distance below frame. ACTION on twos: eyeball in micro left-right tracking movement — pause — pupils contract sharply — the instant of recognition — eyelids flutter slightly in two held frames — jaw corner tightens off-frame, visible only as a tension in the cheek — breath vapor drifts across the lower corner of frame, torn sideways by wind. Constant handheld micro-shake throughout. A rolling wave of buran briefly obscures the frame. Animated on twos. HARD CUT TO SHOT 2D — WIDE SHOT handheld — wolf pack as shadow mass — distance mode. Duration: approx. 8 seconds. COMPOSITION: asymmetric — forbidden: centered framing. Camera positioned within the tree line, offset to the left. Dense tree trunks occupy and crowd the right third of frame. Open space to the left. Depth axis shifted right, not centered. Wolf pack drives into frame from the lower right — mass heaviest on the right side, left edge showing only sparse fringe and trailing edge. THE PACK — approximately two hundred wolves. They do not exist as individual animals. NOT smoke, NOT mist, NOT vapor — the pack has mass, weight, and momentum. The entire pack moves as a single body of dark water surging downhill — liquid with density and pressure behind it, not diffuse or drifting. It is also shadow: it swallows light rather than reflects it, leaving a presence darker than everything around it in the flat grey-white atmosphere. Water and shadow — these two qualities together, never smoke. Movement pace: swift and relentless — faster than expected for something so massive, the speed of a flash flood or a river breaking its banks, not slow and rolling. The mass covers ground urgently, with weight and velocity combined. Mass density clearly differentiated: the core is near-opaque dense black like deep water — solid, heavy, light-swallowing — toward the edges it thins like water spreading at its margins, individual silhouettes briefly legible at the fringe then reabsorbed into the core. The edge is not soft or diffuse like smoke — it is the ragged turbulent edge of moving water. Large waves and small waves alternating with speed: heavy large waves surge and crest — small fast wave-crests explode between them. White teeth are the only thing in frame that does not belong to the shadow — solid, material, flashing simultaneously at multiple points as wave-crests break, then swallowed back. Skull outlines breach the surface and are pulled under like objects in fast current. Charcoal black with deep navy-blue sheen. Amber-yellow eye-points ignite in clusters in the darkness then extinguish in batches like bioluminescence in black water. Black water flood pours between the tree trunks — trunks submerged by black then re-emerging as the mass passes. Contrast: white blizzard / black wolf mass — white fear, black death. Camera near-still, breathing micro-shake only — as if the observer has instinctively stopped breathing. Animated on twos. Constraints: wolf pack is NEVER smoke, mist, or vapor — it has mass, weight, density, and speed — it is water and shadow. Wolf pack is NEVER a collection of individually animated animals — always a single fluid mass. DISTANCE MODE: mass coherence is absolute, individual wolves do not detach or become readable as separate figures. White teeth are the ONLY non-shadow element within the pack mass. Amber-yellow eye-points appear and extinguish in clusters, never individually. No warm light source anywhere in any frame. No rim light, no backlight, no moonlight — flat grey-white diffuse ambient only. No amber glow from forest reference applied. Camera handheld throughout — never stabilized, never smooth. Animated on twos throughout, no interpolation. 11 seconds total. 12fps. 8K. No music. SFX only. No subtitles. No 3D.

Latte

12,901 просмотров • 13 дней назад