Once upon a time, there was a poet whose poems didn’t just rhyme – they burned. None of this “love-dove-above-the-heavens” nonsense; her words lit the page as if the ink itself were flammable. Her throat, clogged with ash, sang lines that made the wind hold its breath, afraid to interrupt her. But one day, after singing her most dangerous song – “In My Flame” – she realized: she needed HIM. Not just a muse, but an image, a spark that scorched her soul, not calmed it. She whispered the words like a spell: "Sweet girl, don't tease, don't stare - If you catch my fiery gaze, You might get lost..."

She opened her laptop in the dim light of the room, the screen's light reflecting off her chipped mug of cold tea, and launched "1001 Images" - a magical catalog of artificial intelligence that promised to summon the muse of her dreams, but more often caused a migraine and an irresistible desire to throw the device out the window. The pixels hummed, the algorithm worked, and the parade of candidates began.

The first to appear was Andrey Plakatello. Eyes like two oceans full of rain, eyelashes like umbrellas in a storm. He looked at her as if he had forgotten his goal, not to mention hers, and tried to play a melody on the guitar, but the strings snapped with a plaintive ringing.

Andrey smiled timidly and asked: "Is this atmospheric?"

"Too sentimental," she snapped. "I need a forest fire. "You might get lost, you won't know where..." Next!"

And the magic 1001 pixels gave... It was Demyan Criminal Collar. Eyebrows like Gothic cathedrals, a look as precise and useless as a train schedule from 1983. He stood in the narrow corridor of the train, his coat flapping, pulling out a tattered ticket: "Your train left... in 1983."

"You'd be perfect for a knife commercial," the poetess said. "That's not a compliment."

Then Mr. Fashionable Fog appeared, gray, faceless, as if he'd stepped off the set of a Lana Del Rey video and forgotten his lines.

"You're a shadow of someone's cliche," she sighed, her faith in technology fading. "Don't play with fire, if it turns out that we burn the same way..."

…Felix the Body...He materialized against the doorway, like a ghost of operetta Eros from a bohemian wardrobe.He was wearing a shirt that made it hard to breathe and pants that, apparently, screamed about being ready to receive guests.

His protruding butt, bathed in the warm light of the virtual sunset, made you wonder whether he was leaving a party - or just entering someone's destiny. Most likely, an "incomprehensible experiment of the algorithm" was issued from overload.

The poetess choked in surprise: "You look like a statue that they forgot to finish, go on by."

She barely reached the end of her sentence when, beneath the cardboard candles and paper-thin Gothic arch, a trumpet blast rang out—loud enough to earn even Paul Bunyan’s envy.  

A spark had flown, all right; only it wasn’t passion flaring, but a bout of bodily despair.

At this time, the poetess desperately poked at the screen, twisted the sliders, almost broke the keyboard, begging the algorithm to give out at least something - at least something - worthwhile. When, simultaneously with the sound, in the dim light of the screen, he appeared...

Petya Lip-Slapper

In his hands - a fireball. In his eyes - the tension of a man holding back something monumental. He stepped forward, the fireball trembled.

"Can I... set it on fire here?" he asked.

And then a sound was heard. Not thunder, not an explosion, but... a fart. It was a whistle with sparks. A whistle with gusts of passion. The flame licked the hem of his coat, and he cried out: "This is part of the show!"

The poetess pushed the laptop away and spilled tea on the hero's hem. The catalog froze. Emptiness pulsed inside her, like a harbinger of the apocalypse.

"If the next one shows up with a sticking out butt and explosive love, I'll cut off the Wi-Fi and go to a monastery," she muttered, singing: "Sweet girl, don't ask why - this craving is deeper than you can imagine..."

But Petya didn't finish. He coughed, adjusted his fireball and declared: "I'm here... to contain my passion."

"Go away," she said calmly, like a person who has seen all the fires in the world.

Tags flashed on the screen like bad omens: #strongman #passion #avoidseyecontact #fireDidNobodyAsk.

She was about to slam the laptop shut and return to pen and paper, muttering, "If this algorithm fails again, I'll go to pen and candle," when the screen flickered.

No blinding. No build-up. Just him, entering the frame...

A dark unbuttoned shirt, jeans, eyes the color of a spring sky, but tinted with something ancient - war, memory, poetry itself.

He didn't wait for an invitation. He knew.

"You called," he said softly, without pathos. "I'm here. 'But you're already in my flame...'"

The screen flashed with her own phrase: "But you're already in my flame."

Somewhere behind the scenes, Petya Lip-Slapper choked on his fireball and wandered off to rethink his entire aesthetic. The poetess couldn't breathe - not because he was handsome, but because he made her real.

And at that moment she realized: charisma doesn't burn. Charisma ignites.

She grabbed a pen. The paper began to smoke. And somewhere in the depths of "1001 images" the algorithm whispered: "Sweet girl, step left, step right - Each step still pulls you into the flames..."

Somewhere in the depths of "1001 images" another candidate was already forming, but that's a completely different story.