Add "A verbose story" topic to TOC and create its file

A new file, "A verbose story," has been added under the Writerside/topics directory, and it has been integrated into the table of contents. The story provides a detailed and descriptive narrative about Bartleby P. Quibbleton's morning routine and his journey to procure provisions.

Writerside/d.tree

@@ -32,6 +32,7 @@
         <toc-element topic="SOMe-unnamed-software.md"/>
     </toc-element>
     <toc-element topic="AI-Things.md">
+        <toc-element topic="A-verbose-story.md"/>
         <toc-element topic="Two-AI-walk-into-a-bar-Gemini-2-0-Flash-experimental.md"/>
         <toc-element topic="Silence-of-the-Lambdas-An-AI-Conversation.md"/>
         <toc-element topic="Ask-a-question-to-another-AI-it-will-answer.md"/>

Writerside/topics/A-verbose-story.md

@@ -0,0 +1,23 @@
+# A verbose story
+
+> i got what i asked for ...
+
+## Chapter 7: The Perilous Journey to Procure Provisions
+
+The sun, a celestial orb of blinding luminescence, had ascended to its zenith in the cerulean expanse above, casting its radiant glow upon the quaint hamlet of Little Puddleton. Within a modest dwelling constructed of timeworn brick and mortar, resided a gentleman by the name of Bartholomew P. Quibbleton, a man of considerable girth and a penchant for meticulous detail. Bartholomew, or Bartleby as he was affectionately known by his acquaintances, was a creature of habit, and this particular Thursday morning was no exception to his rigidly observed routine.
+
+At precisely 7:14 am, as dictated by the ornate grandfather clock in the hallway, Bartleby's eyelids flickered open, revealing a pair of pale blue orbs that blinked owlishly against the sudden intrusion of daylight. With a groan that emanated from the depths of his ample stomach, he heaved his considerable bulk from the warm confines of his feather-stuffed mattress, the springs protesting with a cacophony of squeaks and creaks.
+
+His feet, clad in thick woolen socks knitted by his own hand, met the cold, unforgiving floorboards with a muffled thud. He shuffled across the room, each step a minor seismic event, towards the washbasin that stood upon a rickety wooden stand. The basin, chipped and stained with the passage of time, contained a meager amount of tepid water, which Bartleby proceeded to splash upon his face, accompanied by a generous dollop of lavender-scented soap.
+
+After completing his ablutions, Bartleby embarked upon the arduous task of selecting his attire for the day. His wardrobe, housed in a mahogany armoire that had seen better days, contained a limited selection of garments, each more drab and uninspiring than the last. After much deliberation, he settled upon a pair of brown corduroy trousers, a tweed waistcoat that strained at its buttons, and a faded shirt of indeterminate color.
+
+Thus attired, Bartleby descended the creaking staircase, his stomach rumbling in anticipation of the breakfast that awaited him. The kitchen, a small, dimly lit room with a low ceiling, was dominated by a large, cast-iron stove that radiated a comforting warmth. Upon the table, laid out with a starched white tablecloth, sat a plate bearing a single, perfectly poached egg, two slices of toast, and a solitary rasher of bacon.
+
+Bartleby, a man of simple tastes, consumed his breakfast with methodical precision, savoring each bite with the solemnity of a religious ritual. Once the last crumb had been devoured, he meticulously wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, folded it into a perfect triangle, and placed it beside his plate.
+
+The time had come for the day's primary objective: the procurement of provisions. This weekly expedition to the village market was an undertaking that filled Bartleby with a sense of both dread and anticipation. Dread, because it necessitated venturing out into the unpredictable world beyond his front door, and anticipation, because it promised the acquisition of new and interesting ingredients for his culinary experiments.
+
+With a sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body, Bartleby retrieved his hat, a rather battered fedora that had seen better days, and his walking stick, a sturdy oak branch he had personally selected and whittled into shape. Thus equipped, he ventured forth into the blinding sunlight, his journey to the market beginning with the careful negotiation of the three steps leading down from his front door. Each step was taken with the utmost caution, his weight shifting deliberately to avoid any undue strain on the aging brickwork.
+
+And so, with the sun beating down upon his back and the prospect of fresh vegetables and perhaps a juicy cut of beef looming in his mind, Bartleby P. Quibbleton embarked upon his weekly pilgrimage to the bustling heart of Little Puddleton, a journey that would, in its own small way, test his patience, his fortitude, and his capacity for enduring the minutiae of everyday life.