New A.I. stock market algorithm "learns" like ChatGPT 👨‍💻

𝖳𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖲𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗋𝗈𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝖠𝗇-𝖤 — 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖠.𝖨.-𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾. [Main Logotype (Dark Green) | EMA]( Hey Reader, You’ve probably heard the name ChatGPT… But if you’re not familiar with exactly what it is… essentially, ChatGPT is the largest, most powerful A.I. language model ever created. And what makes it so revolutionary is if you ask it a question… it can give you an appropriate response all in context… such that, if you didn’t know ahead of time, you wouldn’t know whether you were talking to a person or a machine. And it can also do complex tasks like: explain Newton’s laws of motion… Write a poem in the style of Walt Whitman… Even summarize the book “Pride and Prejudice.” Well, how does it do that? Machine Learning. But, more specifically, through a process called “pre-training.” The ChatGPT A.I. algorithm is fed billions of words. It then reads through those words with billions of parameters… and can process them all in seconds. This primes it or “pre-trains” the A.I. algorithm ahead of time… so when presented with a scenario in the future… it will know what to say. That way when the program is asked a question in real time, it can give an appropriate response in context. And it found its way to that answer all on its own… it didn’t need a human, because it was “pre-trained” in advance. It taught itself. Well, [we just put the finishing touches on a revolutionary A.I. algorithm of our own we call An-E (pronounced Annie, short for Analytical Engine) that does the same thing...]( Only, instead of words… we “pretrained” it with numbers and data. And, instead, of language processing, it analyzes financial data to predict stock prices. And its backtested predictions are incredibly accurate — sometimes spot on one or two months into the future. Last night we revealed to the world for the first time at our The A.I. Predictive Power Event. [You can watch the replay now for a limited time. Click here while its still available]( When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem’s fears of being able to play footb were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parel to his thigh. He couldn’t have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt. When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimes discussed the events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it , but Jem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out. I said if he wanted to take a broad view of the thing, it rey began with Andrew Jackson. If General Jackson hadn’t run the Creeks up the creek, Simon Finch would have paddled up the Alabama, and w would we be if he hadn’t? We were far too old to settle an argument with a fist-fight, so we consulted Atticus. Our father said we were both right. Being Southerners, it was a source of shame to some s of the family that we had no recorded ancestors on either side of the Battle of Hastings. we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from Cornw whose piety was exceeded by his stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution of those who ced themselves Methodists at the hands of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon ced himself a Methodist, he worked his way across the Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence to Jamaica, thence to Mobile, and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley’s strictures on the use of many words in ing and selling, Simon made a pile pricing , but in this pursuit he was unhappy lest he be tempted into doing what he k was not for the glory of God, as the putting on of and costly apparel. So Simon, having forgotten his teacher’s dictum on the possession of chattels, bought three slaves and with their aid established a stead on the banks of the Alabama River some forty miles above Saint Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephens once, to find a , and with her established a line that ran high to daughters. Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich. It was customary for the men in the family to remain on Simon’s stead, Finch’s Landing, and make their living from cotton. The place was self-sufficient: modest in comparison with the empires around it, the Landing theless produced everything required to sustain except ice, wheat flour, and articles of clothing, supplied by river-boats from Mobile. Simon would have regarded with impotent fury the disturbance between the North and the South, as it left his descendants stripped of everything but their land, yet the tradition of living on the land remained unbroken until well into the twentieth century, when my father, Atticus Finch, went to Montgomery to read law, and his younger brother went to Boston to study . Their sister Alexandra was the Finch who remained at the Landing: she married a taciturn man who spent most of his time lying in a hammock by the river dering if his trot-lines were full. When my father was admitted to the bar, he returned to Maycomb and began his . Maycomb, some twenty miles east of Finch’s Landing, was the county seat of Maycomb County. Atticus’s ice in the courthouse contained little more than a hat rack, a spittoon, a checkerboard and an unsullied Code of Alabama. His first two clients were the last two persons hanged in the Maycomb County jail. Atticus had urged them to accept the state’s generosity in owing them to plead Guilty to second-degree murder and escape with their lives, but they were Haverfords, in Maycomb County a synonymous with jackass. The Haverfords had dispatched Maycomb’s leading blacksmith in a misunderstanding arising from the eged wrongful detention of a mare, were imprudent enough to do it in the presence of three witnesses, and insisted that the-son-of-a-bitch-had-itcoming-to-him was a good enough defense for anybody. They persisted in pleading Not Guilty to first-degree murder, so t was nothing much Atticus could do for his clients except be present at their departure, an occasion that was probably the beginning of my father’s profound distaste for the of criminal law. During his first five years in Maycomb, Atticus d economy more than anything; for several years tafter he invested his earnings in his brother’s education. John Hale Finch was ten years younger than my father, and chose to study at a time when cotton was not worth growing; but after ting Uncle Jack started, Atticus derived a reasonable from the law. He liked Maycomb, he was Maycomb County born and bred; he k his people, they k him, and because of Simon Finch’s industry, Atticus was related by blood or marriage to nearly every family in the town. Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first k it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer’s day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightf were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum. People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out of the stores around it, took their time about everything. A day was twenty-four hours long but seemed longer. T was no hurry, for t was to go, nothing to and no to it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County. But it was a time of vague optimism for some of the people: Maycomb County had recently been told that it had nothing to fear but fear itself. We lived on the main residential street in town— Atticus, Jem and I, plus Calpurnia our cook. Jem and I found our father satisfory: he played with us, read to us, and treated us with courteous detachment. Calpurnia was something else again. She was angles and bones; she was nearsighted; she squinted; her hand was wide as a bed slat and twice as hard. She was always ing me out of the kitchen, asking me why I couldn’t behave as well as Jem when she k he was older, and cing me when I wasn’t ready to come. Our battles were epic and one-sided. Calpurnia always , mainly because Atticus always took her side. She had been with us ever since Jem was born, and I had felt her tyrannical presence as long as I could re. Our mother died when I was two, so I felt her absence. She was a Graham from Montgomery; Atticus met her when he was first elected to the state legislature. He was middle-aged then, she was fifteen years his junior. Jem was the product of their first year of marriage; four years later I was born, and two years later our mother died from a sudden heart attack. They said it ran in her family. I did not miss her, but I think Jem did. He reed her clearly, and sometimes in the middle of a game he would sigh at length, then go and play by himself behind the car-house. When he was like that, I k better than to bother him. When I was almost six and Jem was nearly ten, our summertime boundaries (within cing distance of Calpurnia) were Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house two doors to the north of us, and the Radley Place three doors to the south. We were tempted to break them. The Radley Place was inhabited by an unkn entity the mere description of whom was enough to make us behave for days on end; Mrs. Dubose was plain hell. That was the summer Dill came to us. Early one morning as we were beginning our day’s play in the back yard, Jem and I heard something next door in Miss Rachel Haverford’s collard patch. We went to the wire fence to see if t was a puppy— Miss Rachel’s rat terrier was expecting— instead we found someone sitting looking at us. Sitting down, he wasn’t much higher than the collards. We stared at him until he spoke: Shoot no der, then, said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. Scout yonder’s been readin‘ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look right puny for goin’ on seven. I’m little but I’m old, he said. Jem brushed his hair back to a better look. Why don’t you come over, Charles Baker Harris? he said. Lord, what a . ‘s not any funnier’n yours. Aunt Rachel says your ’s Jeremy Atticus Finch. Jem scowled. I’m big enough to fit mine, he said. Your ’s longer’n you are. Bet it’s a foot longer. Folks c me Dill, said Dill, struggling under the fence. Do better if you go over it instead of under it, I said. W’d you come from? Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with his aunt, Miss Rachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from on. His family was from Maycomb County originy, his mother worked for a photographer in Meridian, had entered his picture in a Beautiful Child contest and five . She gave the to Dill, who went to the picture show twenty times on it. Don’t have any picture shows , except Jesus ones in the courthouse sometimes, said Jem. Ever see anything good? Dill had seen Dracula, a revelation that moved Jem to eye him with the beginning of respect. Tell it to us, he said. Dill was a curiosity. He wore blue linen shorts that buttoned to his shirt, his hair was s white and stuck to his head like duckfluff; he was a year my senior but I towered over him. As he told us the old tale his blue eyes would lighten and darken; his laugh was sudden and happy; he habituy pulled at a cowlick in the center of his forehead. When Dill reduced Dracula to dust, and Jem said the show sounded better than the book, I asked Dill w his father was: You ain’t said anything about him. Then if he’s not dead you’ve got one, haven’t you? Dill blushed and Jem told me to hush, a sure sign that Dill had been studied and found acceptable. Tafter the summer passed in routine contentment. Routine contentment was: improving our treehouse that rested between giant twin chinaberry trees in the back yard, fussing, running through our list of dramas based on the works of Oliver Optic, Victor Appleton, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. In this matter we were lucky to have Dill. He played the charer parts erly thrust upon me— the ape in Tarzan, Mr. Crabtree in The Rover Boys, Mr. Damon in Tom Swift. Thus we came to k Dill as a pocket Merlin, whose head teemed with eccentric plans, strange longings, and quaint fancies. But by the end of August our repertoire was vapid from countless reproductions, and it was then that Dill gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out. The Radley Place fascinated Dill. In spite of our warnings and explanations it drew him as the moon draws water, but drew him no nearer than the light-pole on the corner, a safe distance from the Radley gate. T he would stand, his arm around the fat pole, staring and dering. 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