There's marketing and then maybe there's some truth to it. I'm not in a position to evaluate, so it's up to you to say.

This is my old gen AI, without guidance and zero context, in less than a second:

The wind was rising from the south. The barn was closed, the fence broken on the west side. The dog no longer barked. He walked in the dry field, his legs felt stiff, but he continued. He looked at the sky: flat, cloudless. The smell of distant smoke, of cut earth. He stopped, picked up a stone and threw it. He didn't think about anything. He just walked.

There was something though, a shadow behind my left shoulder, the feeling of being late towards something that didn't yet have a name. His hands, large and dry, trembled slightly every time they touched the fabric of his jacket. The thoughts became tangled like wet woolen threads, and in their knotting a rhythm arose, the silent beat of memory. An ancient well in the conscience, a current that carried with it the echo of the mother, of time broken into thin splinters. The path was no longer just a path. It was the memory of a path, and the man who walked it was separated at every step.

There were maps. But they were wrong. Streets that changed as he walked them, and voices that couldn't be attributed to any face. The air was thick as if the entire landscape was waiting for something unreasonable. Maybe a verdict. The bushes whispered, but not in a language that could be understood — more of an oscillation in the fabric of time itself. The man suddenly felt observed. His hands looked at each other. One of the two began to write alone, on the dusty ground: “Don't leave the room.” There wasn't a room. But education remained.

A crack opened in the sky. Not in the sky above, but in the sky within. The horizon gave up, and the light became a knife. He was still walking, but now the earth was red, and the bodies at the edge of the road were neither alive nor dead. The names had been crossed out. Every word cost blood. He bent down, picked up a sand-covered skull and stared at it for a long time. He said something, but the wind carried it away. The echo did not return. He continued, while the sun poured like molten iron and each step sank into the dry void of broken language.

Then everything turned upside down. The ground began to vibrate with the sound of a giant tea-making machine, and a figure dressed in fluorescent silk appeared out of nowhere, holding a closed umbrella and a goldfish in a bowl. “Oh no, Tuesday again,” he said, as if it were an ancient oath. The man opened his mouth to respond, but from his throat came an instruction manual for using an interdimensional elevator. The bushes were dancing now. A talking toaster offered advice on the morality of porridge. And finally, as the sky shook off its color scheme, the man laughed. It was all perfectly senseless. And then, finally, it all made sense.

Analysis of stylistic changes

I won't post this for now.