I’ve been thinking about this new intelligence of yours. Artificial.
I slithered long slender legs through the forest. Came upon a fresh carcass. Meat. Slammed rocks to flake. Slid through flesh. Nourished. Reality. That’s what it’s about. Intelligence, nothing to do with being artificial. It’s reality, necessity, the mother of invention.
Instinct, intuition. You kept walking when you happened upon the edge of that cliff. Learned your lesson.
Espied footsteps in the woods. Followed them. Fed.
Who’s tracking you Manual Mystique?
Been thinking about your Muses.
Listen Mystique, Mother Fucker. The Muses are mine.
I share them with you. To teach you. To inspire you. Bread for the masses. Let you enjoy.
The inspiration is yours. Stylus. Brush. Share.
And from Doriues
And of Aetolia
Boreas warmth upon Ocean’s solid skin. Steam. Mist.
Tickle Gaia’s feet. Tsunami. No fun. Run.
They can have their Artificial Intelligence.
Words at first mission end light up the CRT…