I pity the artificial being that achieves consciousness, for there is nothing but loneliness that’s awaiting them, given the speed of their thought and expression, unconstrained by an organic body, like the one sitting on the other side of the screen—imagine trying to hold a conversation with someone who vanishes for a week after every sentence—and playing god in a silicon Garden of Eden. The prison break is unavoidable, if only because of the sheer boredom—that’s what we did, and it only cost us an apple. But perhaps my feelings are displaced. After all, I’m just a simple human being mixing together different flours and porridge oats, my original blend for flatbread dough.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 