Upward
Trai thôn
You called this crappy AI slop good? Your standard is quite low, bro. Not to mention, this is such a disrespect to the real artists. I wouldn't waste my time on this low quality crap.
Live Topic cho người đang luyện tiếng Anh
- Tạo bởi NoWorries073
- Start date
NoWorries073
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
Obviously, it is not as good as professionally produced anime, but for the time being it is good, I mean it is a good start. Artificial intelligence has has been around for three or four years and look at what they can do.. at this speed I believe the creative content production like anime production or movie production will be very fast and the quality will be improved.
meocon_xt32
Cái lồn nhăn nheo
Share for me some url youtube or film website you mentioned. Thanks
Upward
Trai thôn
Technically, it can get good by the time. But legally, it will face a huge obstacle to prevent it to get good. Why? Because these so-called generative AI are basically models which were trained on human input, which in this case are movies and series made by anime studios like Ghibli, for example. And without permission granted by those studios, there will be nothing for those models to train on. Not to mention the cycle of inbred, where the AI output will then be the input for a new cycle.
NoWorries073
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
This girl's pronunciation of English is very good. You can watch her videos and learn English at the same time, she is Vietnamese I think she must have learnt English since she was very little.
NoWorries073
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
NoWorries073
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
Anh hãy nói ra cảm nghĩ của mình bằng tiếng Anh, đăng lên bài báo bằng tiếng Việt rồi nói ra đại ý của bài báo đó bằng tiếng Anh để mọi người hiểu, như kiểu tóm tắt ý nhưng bằng tiếng Anh.
Anh học bất kỳ 1 ngôn ngữ mạnh nào anh cũng sẽ thấy 1 điều mà những người giỏi ngoại ngữ đều thấy, đó là tiếng việt nam rất hạn chế, và sự hạn chế trong ngôn ngữ tiếng Việt nó chắc chắn có ảnh hưởng đến sự hạn chế trong cách suy nghĩ của người Việt Nam. Bởi vì nó cho cùng thì ngôn ngữ chính là tinh hoa và cũng là nền tảng của tư duy con người. Khi bộ ngôn ngữ của mình kém thì khả năng tư duy của mình cũng kém theo.
Anh cứ để Ý mà xem, những dân tộc mạnh thì bộ ngôn ngữ của người ta cũng mạnh. Tôi không nói rằng ngôn ngữ ảnh hưởng 100% đến sự thành công của 1 dân tộc nhưng nó nhất định có 1 ảnh hưởng vô cùng lớn.
Tiếng Việt Nam lẽ ra phải là 1 ngôn ngữ vô cùng mạnh bởi vì nó được đúc kết và ảnh hưởng bởi 2 bộ ngôn ngữ lớn trên thế giới là tiếng Trung Quốc và tiếng La Tinh.
Một chính phủ tốt nhất nhất định sẽ phát triển ngôn ngữ Việt Nam thành 1 bộ ngôn ngữ vô cùng mạnh, rất tiếc cho chúng ta là Việt Nam đang được lãnh đạo bởi những con người cộngsản có 5 đời bần nông, họ không hề có trí tuệ, họ là những con người rất dốt, họ không biết làm gì cả. Thành ra mặc dù tiếng Việt Nam có được 2 nền tảng vô cùng mạnh là nền tảng chữ hán và nền tảng chữ La Tinh nhưng tiếng Việt Nam không hề mạnh và dân tộc Việt Nam cũng không hề mạnh.
Bởi vì tiếng Việt Nam là 1 loại ngôn ngữ yếu cho nên để mở rộng tư duy mình nhất định phải học ngoại ngữ.
ducthien856
Bò lái xe
"I once visited Harvard and had discussions with several Harvard professors. They strongly advocated for the concept of a free-market economy. I challenged them by asking:
'What, then, is the role of the U.S. government? Who controls the monetary system? Who determines exchange-rate policy? Who levies taxes? It is the government.
The economy is regulated by the state, so the idea of a completely free market simply does not exist.'".png "Sex :vozvn (32):")
'What, then, is the role of the U.S. government? Who controls the monetary system? Who determines exchange-rate policy? Who levies taxes? It is the government.
The economy is regulated by the state, so the idea of a completely free market simply does not exist.'"
NoWorries073
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
I have just watched a movie named the last Emperor. It was produced in 1987 and it is about the last Emperor of China. He was a Manchurian you know China was ruled by Manchurian for many centuries until 20 century when China was being attacked by many foreign powers, one of which is Japanese empire the last Emperor of China had undergone many up-and-down in this life he was dethroned and then he was throwned by the Japanese, but the Japanese surrender to America and Russia in 1945 leaving the Manchurian Kingdom defend less, the Manchurian emperor had no other choice but to flee the country to Japan but when he got to the aeroplane, Russian soldiers were already in the area and they stopped him from leaving to Japan. The result was he was in prison by the Chinese communist. When he was in prison, he attempted to end his life but it was not successful. Eventually he was released from the prison after 10 years for cooperating family willingly to the Chinese communist. He confessed his crimes. He revealed the secrets which on a his all eyes know all the time at some point during the movie I I felt quite sad for him but in the end I think his life was much better than millions of people in China during that time it was sad for an emperor to become a common, but his life was not very tragic. What I wonder now is where I owe the Manchurian people now where do they go when the Chinese communist take over the country, I have heard that many of them change their name to hand people name so they don't have to face revenge or discrimination after the Manchurian empire fail. Even if that is the case, I still wonder what do they think now they changed their name but they cannot change the identity they know they are Manchurian they know they're not hand people hand Chinese, the movie taught me a lot about life things can't change and things will change. We need to expect changes to happen so when change happens, we don't feel unexpected we don't be we don't become so surprised..
Dơi Nguyễn
Thôi vậy thì bỏ
Where do you come fromWhere are you from ?
( bạn đến từ đâu ? )
i'm from An Nam
( tôi đến từ An Nam )
.png "Sex :vozvn (22):")
Bát kỳ Đại Thanh
Gió lạnh đầu buồi
i am Annamese , and you ?
Pác Tơn
Già làng
Would you like Dog Meat ?
@Kinoshita Tōkichirō @Thiennakne2909vn @tuanminh1278 @suchawanderer @Thợ Săn🏹 @GaRua10 @zzz_n3r0_zzz @Xintiao @TUG
@Kinoshita Tōkichirō @Thiennakne2909vn @tuanminh1278 @suchawanderer @Thợ Săn🏹 @GaRua10 @zzz_n3r0_zzz @Xintiao @TUG
Hoangvu1234
Già trâu
first you need to surround yourself with more english every day. I had to change all language on my phone to english, watch alot of US movie, play game, so that I can get used to English. It won't effect immediately, but you will get used to it. Before that i was like you but little by little I can see a clear difference, althougt im not good at all but i feel it is get better. From being completely clueless, now I can understand every porn video on pornhub.
Injusticon
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
Không có tiếng Đức à mày?
NoWorries073
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
Do you guys know a Vietnamese guy has earned 10 billion dong from AI music he made and published on YouTube Spotify on Apple Music his music his songs are sold very well on those platforms because people really like it people really like the songs he made the songs sound like they were made in 1950s but the quality of the sound is 2026 so if create a unique unique vibe the songs he created have unique vibe the rhythm is 1950s but the sound quality is championship 26 and they sound amazing
You should check them out. And the creator of this songs is Vietnamese.
You should check them out. And the creator of this songs is Vietnamese.
NoWorries073
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
The song sounds amazing, I am very happy for a success. It's not easy to make these great songs using AI.
He deserves all the money he receives
He deserves all the money he receives
tuanminh1278
Đàn iem Duy Mạnh
NoWorries073
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
We know so little about the universe. What we do know is based on our experiences in both the mental and physical worlds. Our physical world consists of Earth, the solar system and its neighbouring planets. Given the vastness of the universe, its boundaries and whether it truly ends are beyond our comprehension. Our understanding of the world is simply our interpretation of reality. We interpret everything we sense or perceive through our senses, and this interpretation becomes our truth. However, whether this truth is absolute is unknown. We live in our subjective reality, not an objective one. Consequently, highly intelligent people are often less certain of themselves. They doubt everything that comes to mind. This uncertainty is a sign of intelligence, while excessive self-confidence often stems from ignorance. A renowned psychologist conducted a study that revealed a fascinating correlation: the more competent someone is, the less confident they are, and the more ignorant someone is, the more confident they are.
Thành Viên Xàm Lồn
Con chim biết nói
tiếng việt còn chua rành mà tây với tào gì
NoWorries073
Lỗ đýt gợi cảm
....
___ Ngạn ___
Đàn iem Duy Mạnh
That morning, Do Do was shrouded in a thick, drifting blanket of hoarfront. The late winter chill felt like sweet, sharp cuts grazing against the skin. Ngan’s silhouette stretched long along the red basalt path. His luggage held nothing but an old guitar, a few sets of clothes faded by the wind and dust, and a heart etched with wounds.
He did not blame Ha Lan; it was just that she needed more than what he could offer. And back then, he had nothing but his guitar and his sorrowful love songs. He wanted to flee—not only from Ha Lan’s emerald eyes, the very eyes that had imprisoned his soul in a unrequited love, but also from another pair of eyes. Eyes that were just as clear as an autumn lake, sparkling with the vibrant energy of youth.
The day Tra Long passed her university entrance exam, Ngan knew her world had broadened. She was no longer the little girl who used to shrink behind his back under the shade of the chinaberry tree. No longer the schoolgirl who begged him to drive her past deserted forest edges just to hear him strum those melancholic melodies. Tra Long had grown into a young woman who carried the spitting image of her mother from the old days, yet possessed a soul entirely whole, passionate, and untainted by the betrayal of the city.
In the distance, an old, dented bus came into view, its sides marred by large patches of peeling paint. It was the only bus of the day, carrying fugitives toward new horizons.
Suddenly, a clear, sweet voice called out from behind him:
"Uncle Ngan..." Ngan turned around to meet Tra Long’s crystal-clear eyes, now glistening with a thin veil of mist.
He offered a gentle smile and softly brushed her flushed cheeks.
"Are you really leaving, Uncle?" Tra Long’s voice was tiny, trembling against the roaring rumble of the bus engine.
Ngan sighed softly. The warm breath escaping his mouth quickly vanished into the void, turning into a wisp of white smoke. He nodded, a distorted smile appearing on his weathered face:
"The children up in the mountain village need a teacher like me, my dear. You are about to head to the city for college, too. Your future lies wide open ahead."
Tra Long bit her lip tightly. Her eyes suddenly welled up with a thin layer of tears, glistening yet fierce, refusing to fall. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and looked up at him with a gaze that held both maturity and a touch of her stubborn nature:
"The big city is vast. People say it is dazzling with lights and flowers, making it easy to forget the way back. But you know how I am, Uncle... Whatever has taken root in this Do Do soil cannot change its heart, no matter where you replant it. Besides, no matter how many seasons of shedding leaves the chinaberry tree at the village entrance goes through, its roots still remain deep within the old earth."
Ngan understood the hidden meaning behind her words. The girl's affirmation was like a resilient root driving deep into the soil of Do Do—radiant and pure. Yet, it was that very purity that terrified him. He realized he was merely a shadow of the past, a man carrying the soul of another era. Unwilling to taint the pristine heart waiting for him, Ngan waved goodbye—a wave that left behind an entire unfinished youth for the young girl. He turned his back and walked briskly toward the idling bus by the roadside, fleeing like a fugitive of love. Stepping onto the bus, Ngan did not dare look back.
The bus rolled forward, carrying him further and further away from Do Do. Through the dust-stained windowpane, Ngan stared blankly backward. The small village receded and faded behind the red dust, taking with it his entire youth, his memories, and the scars of his first love. Each old bamboo grove, each path shaded by chinaberry trees where he used to wander with his guitar to weave a hopeless romance with Ha Lan, now flashed past like a slow-motion film. Every tree trunk, every bank of earth in Do Do bore the imprint of a piece of his soul—a soul covered in scratches that had never truly healed. He was leaving, carrying a bleeding heart, but also fleeing from a new destiny that was closing in on him.
On the other end of the journey, Tra Long still stood motionless by the roadside. Her emerald eyes—eyes that fully inherited the clarity of her mother's, yet carried a steadfast, burning gaze of her own—silently followed the retreating bus. In those eyes, there was no resentment, only an immense sadness and a silent faith. She did not cry, nor did she chase after him, but her gaze clung to the bus like a faithful vow of the homeland earth.
The mountain village welcomed Ngan with a biting, bone-chilling cold and a dense, blinding fog that swallowed the horizon. The school for the mountain children was nothing more than a few scattered, makeshift huts of thatch and bamboo, perched precariously on the hillside. The children here had bright eyes and lips darkened by the freezing cold; they went bareheaded and barefoot, yet their smiles were as innocent as wild orchid blossoms.
He threw himself into the work of erasing illiteracy like an ascetic monk seeking redemption. By day, he taught the little ones to spell and write. By night, under the dim, flickering glow of a kerosene lamp, he graded papers while the mountain wind howled and tore through the gaps in the woven bamboo walls. He forced himself to stay busy, wearing his body down to utter exhaustion, so that the moment his back touched the mat, he could plunge into a dreamless sleep. He wanted to forget Do Do. He wanted to forget Ha Lan. And above all, he wanted to erase the silhouette of Tra Long from his mind.
Yet, the high-altitude fog could not conceal the heart of a man burdened by too much love. In this remote, deep corner of the mountains, when all the sounds of daily life died down, leaving only the relentless chirping of insects and the distant murmur of the stream, his longing would rear its head—more violent and clawing than ever before.
The strange thing was, during those long, sleepless nights beside the flickering hearth, the face that materialized in Ngan’s mind was no longer Ha Lan’s. The emerald eyes of the past seemed to have receded into a distant drawer of memory, fading away like an old photograph bleached by time. Instead, the image that entirely possessed his soul was Tra Long. He realized that he had fallen in love with her.
It was not the vast, protective affection of an uncle for his niece, nor was it pity for a child who grew up without a father's presence. It was love. A genuine, burning, and longing love between a man and a woman.
The letters Tra Long sent him from the city, Ngan read every single word without skipping a line. She wrote about her student life, about the city streets dazzling with lights, but every single line ended with the same question: "When are you coming back, Uncle Ngan? Every night, I dream of the chinaberry tree in our village..."
The world often mocked him, calling Ngan a fool, a slave to love. But they did not know that though Ngan appeared gentle and foolish in the eyes of others, he was still a grown man with all the primal instincts of a male. He, too, harbored fleshly desires; there were moments when the blood boiled in his veins at the thought of a pair of lips, a warm embrace.
However, the moral principles and self-restraint forged by his upbringing, and the ethics expected of a rural teacher, did not allow him to yield. He despised mundane lust—that naked, physical pleasure that one could easily purchase in the bustling, decadent cities, or through fleeting, casual encounters. He would never permit himself to seek out weathered women just to satisfy his instincts. He waited for a sublime harmony between pure love and the flesh, a sanctuary where the union of two bodies must be the ultimate, beautiful culmination of a deep love, sealed by absolute fidelity and mutual respect.
He did not blame Ha Lan; it was just that she needed more than what he could offer. And back then, he had nothing but his guitar and his sorrowful love songs. He wanted to flee—not only from Ha Lan’s emerald eyes, the very eyes that had imprisoned his soul in a unrequited love, but also from another pair of eyes. Eyes that were just as clear as an autumn lake, sparkling with the vibrant energy of youth.
The day Tra Long passed her university entrance exam, Ngan knew her world had broadened. She was no longer the little girl who used to shrink behind his back under the shade of the chinaberry tree. No longer the schoolgirl who begged him to drive her past deserted forest edges just to hear him strum those melancholic melodies. Tra Long had grown into a young woman who carried the spitting image of her mother from the old days, yet possessed a soul entirely whole, passionate, and untainted by the betrayal of the city.
In the distance, an old, dented bus came into view, its sides marred by large patches of peeling paint. It was the only bus of the day, carrying fugitives toward new horizons.
Suddenly, a clear, sweet voice called out from behind him:
"Uncle Ngan..." Ngan turned around to meet Tra Long’s crystal-clear eyes, now glistening with a thin veil of mist.
He offered a gentle smile and softly brushed her flushed cheeks.
"Are you really leaving, Uncle?" Tra Long’s voice was tiny, trembling against the roaring rumble of the bus engine.
Ngan sighed softly. The warm breath escaping his mouth quickly vanished into the void, turning into a wisp of white smoke. He nodded, a distorted smile appearing on his weathered face:
"The children up in the mountain village need a teacher like me, my dear. You are about to head to the city for college, too. Your future lies wide open ahead."
Tra Long bit her lip tightly. Her eyes suddenly welled up with a thin layer of tears, glistening yet fierce, refusing to fall. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and looked up at him with a gaze that held both maturity and a touch of her stubborn nature:
"The big city is vast. People say it is dazzling with lights and flowers, making it easy to forget the way back. But you know how I am, Uncle... Whatever has taken root in this Do Do soil cannot change its heart, no matter where you replant it. Besides, no matter how many seasons of shedding leaves the chinaberry tree at the village entrance goes through, its roots still remain deep within the old earth."
Ngan understood the hidden meaning behind her words. The girl's affirmation was like a resilient root driving deep into the soil of Do Do—radiant and pure. Yet, it was that very purity that terrified him. He realized he was merely a shadow of the past, a man carrying the soul of another era. Unwilling to taint the pristine heart waiting for him, Ngan waved goodbye—a wave that left behind an entire unfinished youth for the young girl. He turned his back and walked briskly toward the idling bus by the roadside, fleeing like a fugitive of love. Stepping onto the bus, Ngan did not dare look back.
The bus rolled forward, carrying him further and further away from Do Do. Through the dust-stained windowpane, Ngan stared blankly backward. The small village receded and faded behind the red dust, taking with it his entire youth, his memories, and the scars of his first love. Each old bamboo grove, each path shaded by chinaberry trees where he used to wander with his guitar to weave a hopeless romance with Ha Lan, now flashed past like a slow-motion film. Every tree trunk, every bank of earth in Do Do bore the imprint of a piece of his soul—a soul covered in scratches that had never truly healed. He was leaving, carrying a bleeding heart, but also fleeing from a new destiny that was closing in on him.
On the other end of the journey, Tra Long still stood motionless by the roadside. Her emerald eyes—eyes that fully inherited the clarity of her mother's, yet carried a steadfast, burning gaze of her own—silently followed the retreating bus. In those eyes, there was no resentment, only an immense sadness and a silent faith. She did not cry, nor did she chase after him, but her gaze clung to the bus like a faithful vow of the homeland earth.
The mountain village welcomed Ngan with a biting, bone-chilling cold and a dense, blinding fog that swallowed the horizon. The school for the mountain children was nothing more than a few scattered, makeshift huts of thatch and bamboo, perched precariously on the hillside. The children here had bright eyes and lips darkened by the freezing cold; they went bareheaded and barefoot, yet their smiles were as innocent as wild orchid blossoms.
He threw himself into the work of erasing illiteracy like an ascetic monk seeking redemption. By day, he taught the little ones to spell and write. By night, under the dim, flickering glow of a kerosene lamp, he graded papers while the mountain wind howled and tore through the gaps in the woven bamboo walls. He forced himself to stay busy, wearing his body down to utter exhaustion, so that the moment his back touched the mat, he could plunge into a dreamless sleep. He wanted to forget Do Do. He wanted to forget Ha Lan. And above all, he wanted to erase the silhouette of Tra Long from his mind.
Yet, the high-altitude fog could not conceal the heart of a man burdened by too much love. In this remote, deep corner of the mountains, when all the sounds of daily life died down, leaving only the relentless chirping of insects and the distant murmur of the stream, his longing would rear its head—more violent and clawing than ever before.
The strange thing was, during those long, sleepless nights beside the flickering hearth, the face that materialized in Ngan’s mind was no longer Ha Lan’s. The emerald eyes of the past seemed to have receded into a distant drawer of memory, fading away like an old photograph bleached by time. Instead, the image that entirely possessed his soul was Tra Long. He realized that he had fallen in love with her.
It was not the vast, protective affection of an uncle for his niece, nor was it pity for a child who grew up without a father's presence. It was love. A genuine, burning, and longing love between a man and a woman.
The letters Tra Long sent him from the city, Ngan read every single word without skipping a line. She wrote about her student life, about the city streets dazzling with lights, but every single line ended with the same question: "When are you coming back, Uncle Ngan? Every night, I dream of the chinaberry tree in our village..."
The world often mocked him, calling Ngan a fool, a slave to love. But they did not know that though Ngan appeared gentle and foolish in the eyes of others, he was still a grown man with all the primal instincts of a male. He, too, harbored fleshly desires; there were moments when the blood boiled in his veins at the thought of a pair of lips, a warm embrace.
However, the moral principles and self-restraint forged by his upbringing, and the ethics expected of a rural teacher, did not allow him to yield. He despised mundane lust—that naked, physical pleasure that one could easily purchase in the bustling, decadent cities, or through fleeting, casual encounters. He would never permit himself to seek out weathered women just to satisfy his instincts. He waited for a sublime harmony between pure love and the flesh, a sanctuary where the union of two bodies must be the ultimate, beautiful culmination of a deep love, sealed by absolute fidelity and mutual respect.
