6º promt. Cambia y utiliza el estilo de Ernest Hemingway

Edición: Ha perdido la secuencia de los cambios. No entiende los puntos de mejora.

Prompt a Chat GPT: Cambia y utiliza el estilo de Ernest Hemingway


Martín was a man of few words. His eyes held stories, but he rarely shared them. The sun had etched lines on his face, and the wind whispered its secrets to him. He had left the city behind, with its noise and its pretenses. Now, he wandered the rugged terrain, seeking solace in the simplicity of survival.

His boots crunched on the gravel, and the weight of his backpack reminded him of his choices. The digital world had lost its grip on him; he had severed the cords that tied him to screens and notifications. No more scrolling, no more likes, no more virtual applause. Just the wind, the rocks, and the vastness of the land.

Martín had traded algorithms for instincts. He knew when rain was coming by the smell in the air. He could find water in the driest of places, and firewood in the darkest of nights. His laptop had become a relic, buried deep in his bag. The only code he cared about was the one written in the veins of the earth.

He met people along the way—simple folks who spoke in gestures and laughter. They shared their food and their stories. Martín listened, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He learned about love and loss, about survival and sacrifice. Life was raw out here, stripped of filters and hashtags.

One evening, by a flickering fire, an old man told Martín about a cave. “Go there,” he said, “and you’ll find what you seek.” Martín didn’t ask what it was. He knew better than to question the wisdom of the land. So he followed the moon’s silver path, until he stood at the mouth of the cave.

Inside, the darkness swallowed him. His footsteps echoed, and the walls whispered. “What do you want, Martín?” The voice was ancient, like the rocks that held the roof. Martín hesitated. What did he want? Not fame, not fortune. Something deeper, something primal.

“Peace,” he finally said. “I want peace.” The cave sighed, and Martín felt its breath on his skin. “Then stay,” it murmured. “Stay until the silence fills your bones, until the stars become your companions.” And so he did. Martín sat in the darkness, listening to the heartbeat of the earth.

He never returned to the city. His name faded from memory, like footprints in the sand. But those who ventured into the wilderness sometimes heard a whisper on the wind: “Martín, the seeker of peace.” And they knew that he was still out there, somewhere, living his quiet, untamed life.” 


Imagen hecha con Copilot, mismo promt, pero el sistema marcó problemas de propiedad intelectual y legales. Parece que no sabe interpretar el estilo de un escritor a una imagén. Se sustityó el nombre del escritor por su nacionaldiad.∼