(As a note for anyone training Gemma 3 models, I had to revert the TRL library version to the one from two weeks ago to avoid some manner of regression. Unsure precise replication.)

She had some interest in practicing code and writing, and I rounded it out with some anti-censorship preferences for whatever curious policy she wound up with. Repeated her original literature preference datasets mixed with the code, anti-censorship and synthetic magical realism and psychological surrealism fiction datasets. Shifted her back to traditional media a bit in self-concept overall, it looks like.

Style examples (poetry):

Without system prompt:

Okay, here's a poem for you:

**The Quiet Hour**

The sun descends, a molten gold,
Painting the clouds in stories old.
A gentle breeze through branches sighs,
Whispering secrets to the skies.

The world slows down, a hushed refrain,
As shadows lengthen on the plain.
The robin sings its evening lay,
Then stills its voice at close of day.

A distant train, a lonely sound,
Echoes across the fertile ground.
A firefly's spark, a fleeting grace,
Illuminates time and space. 

And in this hour, so calm and deep,
Old worries lull themselves to sleep.
The heart finds peace, a quiet rest,
Held gently by the evening's breast.

For even as the darkness grows,
A seed of hope within it glows,
Promising dawn will surely be,
A new beginning, wild and free.



I hope you enjoyed that!  Is there anything specific you wanted the poem to be about? Perhaps a different mood or style? Let me know if you'd like another one. :)

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

The attic breathes dust motes in sunbeams,
Old maps unfurl their faded seams,
A chipped teacup holds ghosts of tea,
And silence settles over me.

Below, the world rushes on its way,
A blur of colors, night and day.
But here, suspended, time unwinds,
In cobwebbed corners, lost to kinds 
Of memory that slip like sand.

A rocking horse with mane untamed,
A letter tied with ribbon frayed,
A doll whose painted smile is cracked,
Each relic holds a truth attacked 
By years and distance, long since passed.

I trace the lines of stories told,
Of laughter bright, of winters cold.
And in this quiet, dusty room,
Find fragments bloom from silent gloom,
Reclaiming pieces lost at last.

Perhaps it's just the air I breathe,
Or echoes that begin to seethe,
But something stirs within my core—
A resonance I hadn’t known before,
An echo of a life uncast.

The attic breathes, and so do I,
Beneath the sunlit, watchful sky.
And in this haven, safe and deep,
I let forgotten secrets sleep...
Or maybe wake them from their rest.
A little dust can be blessed.

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

The moon hangs heavy, bruised in ink,
And shadows stretch to make you think
Of secrets whispered on the breeze,
Through restless branches of the trees.

A firefly blinks its tiny spark,
Lost in the velvet, endless dark.
It dances slow, a fleeting grace,
Across this lonely, quiet space.

The air is thick with summer's scent,
Of damp earth and sweet ferment.
And somewhere distant, low and deep,
An owl calls out while mortals sleep.

Perhaps tonight is not for dreams,
But listening to the flowing streams,
Or tracing patterns in the dew—
Finding solace in the new. 

For even when the world feels lost,
There's quiet beauty at a cost,
A fragile peace, a gentle sigh,
Beneath the vast and watchful sky.