GPT-4.1 vs. Deepseek v3 vs. Sonnet 3.7 vs. GPT-4.5

A pale stone path, unmarked by centuries of footfall save for one enduring set, wound up the slope. Upon it, a very well-muscled man guided a boulder the size of a small dining table upward with the single-minded focus of a good craftsman, a gentle rhythm keeping step with his humming. Next to him, a crow with uncommonly neat calligraphy perched on a rough-hewn writing desk fashioned from olive branches and the detritus of failed gods. The desk itself inexplicably rolled beside the man at a respectful distance—as if it secretly longed to be a boulder.

Sisyphus cleared his throat, wiped the eternal dust from his hands onto his himation, and, without looking, nudged the boulder into a familiar groove.

“Crow, would you kindly read me the next letter? And remember, we are taking these in order. I don’t care if it’s a long scroll about a mother-in-law. Fair is fair.”

The crow fluffed its feathers, spread a single wing in salute, and plucked a crisp blue sheet from the waiting pile.

“ ‘Dear Sisyphus,

My husband spends all evening at the amphora club drinking with his mates and never listens to anything I say. I feel like an afterthought. Please advise. Signed, Left Behind in Lesbos.’ ”

Sisyphus pursed his lips, briefly glancing up the slope as the boulder inched forward. “Crow, dictate.”

His voice was warm and unhurried, the sound of old stone cooling in the dusk.

“ ‘Dear Left Behind,

First of all, you are not an afterthought. You’re writing to me, and I’m listening, so somewhere a thought has started—and that’s not nothing. Now, clubs can be comforting hideaways for people who struggle with conversation. Not an excuse, but an observation. My suggestion? Meet him outside the house. No, not in the club. Find him twelve paces away, ideally in a small patch of sunlight. Start with three words that have nothing to do with complaints or ale or the price of olives. If he answers, interesting. If not, eat all the olives yourself. You deserve them.

Warm wishes,

Sisyphus.’”

He nudged the boulder, which responded with a complacent crunch.

“Next?” he said.

Crow rifled through its bundles and produced a brittle, faintly singed parchment.

“ ‘Dear Sisyphus,

How do I deal with my supervisor, who takes credit for all my work and then blames me for his errors? Sincerely, Unappreciated in Accounting.’ ”

Sisyphus rolled his eyes at the sky, which looked blandly back, and motioned for Crow to begin.

“ ‘Dear Unappreciated,

I have worked for a number of gods, titans, and kings. In general, if your supervisor’s only real skill is blaming, you are probably the one with actual skills. A suggestion: write down your contributions every day—twice, if you like. Keep one hidden, and leave one where it would embarrass no one but cannot be ignored. If this fails, and you are blamed again, blink very slowly and say, “That’s an interesting way to remember things, Remind me—are you the one who fixed the amphorae or the one who set them on fire?” Small civil disobediences make the boulder lighter.

Steadfastly yours,

Sisyphus.’”

He grinned sidelong at Crow, who clicked appreciatively and started a fresh nib.

The boulder, sensing its cue, jiggled in the rut. Sisyphus gave it a playful hip.

One of the letters, crumpled and ink-stained, seemed in a hurry to be read, and the crow plucked it up.

“ ‘Dear Sisyphus,

Everyone around me seems to know exactly what they want from life, and I feel stuck. Should I be chasing a higher purpose, or is it all pointless anyway? Dithering in Delphi.’ ”

Sisyphus’s brow furrowed with a kind of fondness.

“Crow, ready?”

He paused, setting both hands on the top of the boulder, as it wobbled companionably beneath him.

“ ‘Dear Dithering,

Let me tell you: from the summit, the view is usually the same. Try focusing less on purpose and more on daily practice. Mine happens to be a large igneous rock with questionable manners, but yours needn’t be. Do something—doesn’t matter what—that you can comfortably do again tomorrow. If that becomes purpose, marvellous. If not, at least you’ve had a less tedious day.

Perpetually yours,

Sisyphus.’”

He dusted his palms. The boulder, as if congratulating itself, promptly rolled six steps backward before Sisyphus stopped it with a boot.

“Crow, one last letter. Something cheerful, perhaps?”

Crow, who had a taste for dramatics, chose instead a small pink missive sealed with a kiss.

“ ‘Dear Sisyphus,

There’s this very handsome new neighbor who tends his own grapevine, and I keep ‘accidentally’ dropping my laundry when he walks by. Any suggestions? Flustered in Corinth.’ ”

Sisyphus almost grinned—a rare treat, like figs in spring.

“ ‘Dear Flustered,

If you’re dropping laundry, you’re at least in the right vicinity. Next time, ask for help picking it up, and see if the conversation runs longer than the time it takes to fold a tunic. If he lingers, offer him a grape. If he declines, more for you. Either way, clean clothes and wine are never wasted.

Amusedly,

Sisyphus.’”

He rested for a moment, feeling a peculiar lightness as Crow preened, satisfied.

“Any letters left for today?” Sisyphus asked, knowing quite well there would always be more.

Crow, businesslike, cleared its throat. “One from your favorite—”

“--Not Oedipus again.”

“No,” Crow cawed, “just ‘Mother-In-Law in Miletus.’ ”

Sisyphus sighed—the contented sigh of a man who knows exactly how many steps remain until it all begins again.

“Then let’s get to work. I feel today’s boulder has the right sort of momentum.”

And as he leaned his shoulder to the stone, dictating advice about unreasonable in-laws, marital olives, and the correct method for diffusing the presence of an unwelcome guest, Sisyphus felt almost grateful for the enduring, circular nature of his punishment.

At least, he mused, there is always mail.

High atop a sunlit hillside—exactly the sort of scenic location that postcards misleadingly suggest you'll want to visit one day—Sisyphus paused briefly, wiping the sweat from his brow. Beside him perched Crow, holding a stack of letters with practiced resignation.

"Ready when you are," said Crow dryly, dipping his quill.

"Just a moment," Sisyphus said cheerfully, patting the boulder affectionately. "We'll get you to the top someday, old friend. Right! Who’s first?"

Crow shuffled through the envelopes, settling on one scented delicately with lavender. "Ah, an old favorite. Romance troubles again."

"Excellent, let's hear it."

Crow cleared his throat dramatically.

"Dear Sisyphus,
I’ve fallen deeply for a wonderful man, but his obsession with birdwatching is starting to wear thin. Every date involves binoculars, uncomfortable hiding places, and shushing. Am I wrong to expect romance instead of woodpeckers?

Signed,
Feathered Frustration."

"Hmm," said Sisyphus, thoughtfully scratching his chin. "Tell her this: 'Dear Feathered Frustration, love is never about eliminating a partner's passion, but about making room for two sets of binoculars. Next time, bring a picnic basket and champagne. Remember, enthusiasm—no matter how eccentric—is always better shared.'"

Crow scribbled quickly, nodding. "That one’s not bad."

"Thank you. I’ve been working on balance lately," Sisyphus said brightly, giving the boulder a gentle shove uphill again.

Crow reached for another letter, this one slightly crumpled and smelling suspiciously of coffee. "Work-life balance, next."

"Go on."

"Dear Sisyphus,
My boss believes emails at 2 AM show commitment. I believe they show insomnia. Any advice on setting healthier boundaries without losing my job?

Best,
Sleep-Deprived in Sales."

"Tricky," Sisyphus mused, pausing again with a grunt to keep the boulder steady. "Okay, write this: 'Dear Sleep-Deprived, boundaries are important, but finesse is key. Set an auto-response from midnight to 6 AM: 'Currently sleeping to enhance tomorrow’s productivity. Replies guaranteed after sunrise.' If your boss argues, compliment their drive but remind them that even ambition benefits from rest.'"

Crow tilted his head appreciatively. "Clever, nuanced, non-confrontational. Are you sure you’ve never worked HR?"

"Just a few centuries of repetition," Sisyphus replied amiably. "Next?"

Crow selected a bright yellow envelope next. "This one's juicy."

"Fantastic. Juicy can be illuminating."

Crow read:

"Dear Sisyphus,
My roommate leaves passive-aggressive notes everywhere. Today, I found 'Some of us actually clean dishes' stuck to my favorite mug. How can I address this without escalating into warfare?

Cordially,
Nearly at War."

Sisyphus laughed gently. "Wonderful. Write this down: 'Dear Nearly at War, the best response to passive aggression is sincere directness. Leave a note saying: 'You’re right! Let’s talk tonight and create a dishwashing schedule together.' Offer cookies. No one can stay annoyed when cookies are involved.'"

Crow squawked, amused. "The cookie gambit. Timeless."

Sisyphus smiled, adjusted his grip, and leaned into the boulder again. After several slow, steady pushes uphill, he paused once more.

"Something philosophical next, Crow?"

Crow dutifully unfolded another letter, thick parchment this time, faintly scented of sandalwood.

"Dear Sisyphus,
I feel directionless, as though nothing I do has meaning. How do you find purpose, even when the tasks seem never-ending or futile?

Respectfully,
Existentially Uncertain."

Sisyphus sighed fondly, stepping back from his boulder. He stretched, bones crackling with ancient comfort. "Tell them this: 'Dear Existentially Uncertain, purpose isn’t something grand hidden in distant quests. It’s found in the small graces of daily effort, the people whose lives intersect ours, and the quiet satisfaction of simply trying. Some rocks are never meant to reach the summit, but the joy is in the pushing.'"

Crow raised a feathered eyebrow. "Did you just sneak in a metaphor there?"

"Just one," Sisyphus admitted, grinning sheepishly. "Couldn't resist."

"Fair enough," Crow conceded. "But let's not get carried away."

Sisyphus laughed softly, giving the boulder another gentle shove forward. "No worries. Moderation in all things, Crow—even metaphors."

"Especially metaphors," Crow agreed solemnly.

The next envelope bore an ominous skull stamp. Crow opened it warily.

"Dear Sisyphus,
How do I politely ask my neighbor, a literal necromancer, to stop raising zombies at night? They're moaning so loudly I can’t sleep, and property values are tanking.

Warm regards,
Dead Tired."

"Ah," chuckled Sisyphus, rubbing his hands in delight. "Tell Dead Tired: 'Approach your necromancer neighbor warmly, perhaps during daylight, with a bottle of something strong. Discuss zoning laws and nocturnal etiquette. Suggest quieter forms of undead—specters or wraiths are virtually silent. Diplomacy and spirits—of both sorts—can go a long way.'"

"You’re uncannily good at this," Crow observed, finishing the final flourish.

Sisyphus shrugged modestly, his shoulders flexing beneath the sunlight. "Endless practice has its perks. Another one?"

Crow held up empty claws. "Afraid that's the lot for today."

"Excellent," said Sisyphus, leaning comfortably against the boulder. "Feels good, doesn't it, Crow? Helping people."

"If you say so," Crow replied lightly. "Frankly, I'm mostly in it for the gossip."

Sisyphus laughed, genuinely warm and without a trace of irony. "Fair enough. Ready to mail them off?"

Crow nodded, gathering the letters neatly. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Same time every day," Sisyphus agreed happily. "After all, routine can be quite comforting."

And with that, Sisyphus turned again to his eternal task, not with resignation, but with a curious sort of joy, while Crow took flight, scattering wisdom—and occasionally gossip—into the waiting world below.

**Sisyphus Gives Advice**  

*[The slope is, as always, steep. The boulder is, as always, heavy. The sun is, as always, unrelenting. But today, Sisyphus has company. A large, glossy crow perches on a nearby rock, quill in beak, parchment at the ready. Sisyphus pauses mid-push, wiping his brow with the ease of a man who has done this a few thousand times.]*  

**Sisyphus:** Right, Crow, let’s tackle the mail. Next one?  

**Crow:** *[Flips parchment with a wing.]* “Dear Sisyphus, my mother-in-law insists on rearranging my kitchen every time she visits. I’ve tried asking nicely, but she just says I ‘don’t understand proper organization.’ Help?”  

**Sisyphus:** Ah. The Kitchen Tyrant. *[He leans against the boulder, thoughtful.]* Tell her this: “Dear Frustrated, next time she does it, wait until she leaves and then mail her a single wooden spoon with a note that says, ‘You forgot this.’ When she calls, confused, say, ‘Oh, I assumed you were moving in.’ Polite, pointed, and just absurd enough to make her reconsider.”  

**Crow:** *[Scrawling.]* And if that doesn’t work?  

**Sisyphus:** Then you accept that some boulders roll back down no matter what you do, and you buy a lock for the cutlery drawer. Next?  

*[He gives the boulder a firm shove. It rolls upward. For now.]*  

**Crow:** “Dear Sisyphus, I think my coworker is stealing my lunches. What should I do?”  

**Sisyphus:** *[Snorts.]* Classic. Tell them: “First, confirm your suspicions. Make a sandwich with the hottest peppers you can find. Label it ‘DO NOT EAT – MEDICAL TEST SAMPLE.’ If your coworker spends the afternoon gasping at the water cooler, you’ll have your answer. After that, it’s up to you—mercy or mayonnaise-based vengeance.”  

**Crow:** You’re a fan of the indirect approach.  

**Sisyphus:** Life’s too short for direct confrontation. Well. *[Glances at the boulder.]* Metaphorically speaking.  

*[The boulder reaches the crest. Sisyphus watches it roll back down with the serene acceptance of a man who has made peace with inevitability. He dusts his hands off and turns back to Crow.]*  

**Crow:** Here’s a spicy one. “Dear Sisyphus, I’ve been dating someone for three months, and things are great—except they still haven’t introduced me to their friends. Should I be worried?”  

**Sisyphus:** *[Rubbing his chin.]* Hm. Could be innocent, could be a red flag the size of Tartarus. Tell them: “People introduce their pets to friends faster than their partners these days. Don’t panic yet, but do ask. Casually. Over food. People are less defensive with a mouth full of bread.”  

**Crow:** And if the answer’s dodgy?  

**Sisyphus:** Then you ask yourself: Do I want to be someone’s secret, or do I want to be someone’s *sandwich thief deterrent*? Priorities, my friend.  

*[He strides back down the hill, Crow fluttering after him. The boulder waits patiently at the bottom, as it always does.]*  

**Crow:** Last one for today. “Dear Sisyphus, I’m stuck in a job I hate, but the pay is good. Do I chase my passion or my paycheck?”  

**Sisyphus:** *[Pauses, hands resting on the boulder.]* Ah. The eternal question. Tell them: “Passion won’t pay rent, but misery won’t feed your soul. The trick is to find the middle path—something that doesn’t make you want to hurl yourself into the Styx, but still leaves you energy to paint/write/brew mead/whatever it is on weekends. Also, save up. Financial freedom is the best passion-enabler there is.”  

**Crow:** No boulder metaphors?  

**Sisyphus:** *[Grinning as he pushes.]* Oh, I snuck one in. But you’ve got to be paying attention.  

*[The boulder climbs. The sun shines. The crow scribbles. And somewhere, someone reads a letter and laughs, and for a moment, the weight doesn’t feel so heavy.]*

# THE UNDERWORLD OBSERVER
## ASKING FOR A FRIEND: Advice from Sisyphus
*Where Eternal Wisdom Meets Everyday Problems*

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the barren slope. Sisyphus paused halfway up the incline, his shoulder still pressed against the massive boulder, and wiped sweat from his brow with his free hand. A large black crow landed on a nearby withered tree stump, a small scroll tied to its leg.

"Ah, Crow! More letters?" Sisyphus smiled, his weathered face crinkling at the eyes. "Perfect timing. I was just thinking I could use a break."

The crow cawed once and hopped closer, extending its leg.

"Let's see what we have today." Sisyphus carefully secured his boulder with a small rock wedged underneath before walking over to untie the scroll. He unrolled it and began to read aloud.

---

*Dear Sisyphus,*

*My mother-in-law has moved in with us "temporarily" after a plumbing disaster at her house. That was eight months ago. She criticizes my cooking, rearranges my cupboards, and tells my children stories about how perfect their father was as a child (trust me, he wasn't). My husband says I'm overreacting, but I'm at my wits' end. How do I get my house back without starting a family war?*

*—Desperate in Delphi*

---

Sisyphus chuckled, settling himself on a flat rock as Crow perched attentively, quill somehow ready.

"Dear Desperate,

Family dynamics are tricky beasts, aren't they? Here's what I've learned from centuries of watching the same mistakes play out: problems fester when we frame them as personality conflicts rather than practical issues.

Stop focusing on your mother-in-law as the problem. Instead, make it about the house itself. 'The space feels crowded,' not 'You're invading my space.' 'We need to establish some kitchen systems everyone can follow,' not 'Stop messing with my cupboards.'

Most importantly, give her a timeline. People who don't know when something will end tend to make themselves comfortable in the interim. Help research contractors for her home repairs. Set a move-out date. And remember, even Tartarus has visiting hours—not permanent residency permits.

Regarding your husband, remind him that supporting you doesn't mean betraying his mother. He can love you both while still acknowledging that this arrangement needs an endpoint.

—Sisyphus"

The boulder shifted slightly. Sisyphus turned, eyed it warily, then nodded to Crow. "Next letter, please."

Crow cawed and produced another scroll from a pouch around its neck.

---

*Dear Rock Guy,*

*I've been at the same job for five years. It pays well, but I'm bored out of my mind. Same tasks, day in, day out. I have this dream of opening a bakery, but it would mean starting over financially, and I'm scared. Is it stupid to give up security for a dream that might fail?*

*—Stuck in Sparta*

---

The boulder rolled back a few inches. Sisyphus casually extended a foot to stop it, seemingly unbothered.

"Dear Stuck,

Trust me when I say I understand repetitive work. Let me share something I've observed over the centuries: humans have this remarkable capacity for both adaptation and discontent. You can get used to anything—misery or joy—given enough time.

The question isn't whether your bakery dream will succeed. The question is whether the journey toward it will bring more meaning than the certainty of your current situation.

Start small. Bake on weekends. Sell at local markets. Build clientele before quitting your job. Remember that most regrets come not from failures but from chances never taken.

If security is your primary concern, perhaps it's not the bakery you truly want, but rather a change in your current routine. Consider lateral moves within your industry or finding ways to introduce variety into your existing position.

Whatever you choose, know this: stability without purpose is just stagnation with benefits.

—Sisyphus"

Crow scratched busily as Sisyphus stood, returning to his boulder. He pushed it steadily uphill for several minutes before pausing again near the summit.

"Next one, please," he called, not even winded.

---

*Dear Sisyphus,*

*I think I'm in love with two people at once. My partner of three years is kind, stable, and we have a good life together. But I've met someone who makes me feel alive in ways I'd forgotten were possible. I haven't acted on these feelings, but I can't stop thinking about what I might be missing. Is it possible to love two people? Am I just being selfish?*

*—Conflicted in Corinth*

---

Sisyphus's expression turned thoughtful as he balanced the boulder at the precarious peak.

"Dear Conflicted,

The heart isn't a vessel with limited capacity—it's more like a muscle that can expand. So yes, it's entirely possible to love two people. The real question is whether your life and values can accommodate loving them both in practice.

New connections often shine brighter because they haven't been subjected to the daily friction of real life. They exist in a space free from arguments about finances or whose turn it is to clean the bathroom. This new person represents possibility while your partner represents reality, with all its beautiful, mundane complications.

Before making any decisions, consider this: the feeling of being 'alive' isn't something others give to us—it's something we cultivate within ourselves. Sometimes we project our own desire for change onto new relationships.

If you truly value your current partnership, try bringing that sense of aliveness into it before deciding it can't exist there. If, after honest reflection, you still believe your heart belongs elsewhere, remember that kindness never means deception, even when the truth is difficult.

—Sisyphus"

Just then, the boulder slipped from its peak and began rolling down the slope. Sisyphus watched it with a look of peaceful resignation.

"Always happens," he remarked to Crow. "One more letter before I head down?"

Crow produced a final scroll.

---

*Dear Sisyphus,*

*Everyone tells me I need to 'find my purpose,' but I have no idea what that even means. I'm just going through the motions every day. Work, sleep, repeat. How do you find meaning when everything feels pointless?*

*—Adrift in Athens*

---

Sisyphus watched his boulder come to rest at the bottom of the hill.

"Dear Adrift,

Here's something I've learned after countless cycles up this hill: purpose isn't something you find—it's something you create through attention and intention.

Start by letting go of the idea that meaning must be grand or revolutionary. Some of the most fulfilled people I've observed are those who bring their full presence to small, ordinary moments. The baker who perfects a loaf. The parent who truly listens to their child. The gardener who coaxes life from soil.

Purpose emerges when we connect our actions to something beyond ourselves, however modest that connection might be. It's about how you roll your particular stone, not where it ultimately lands.

For now, try this: at the end of each day, identify one thing you did that made someone's life marginally better. One small stone moved uphill. Over time, those moments accumulate into something that looks remarkably like meaning.

—Sisyphus"

Crow finished transcribing as Sisyphus began his descent.

"Same time tomorrow?" Sisyphus called over his shoulder.

The crow cawed in agreement, gathering the responses in its pouch before taking flight, circling once above Sisyphus as he reached his boulder and placed his hands against its familiar surface.

"You know," he murmured to himself, a small smile playing on his lips as he began pushing uphill once more, "I think I'm finally getting the hang of this."