I Think And Talk
( Innoculated by Machines of Loving Grace, Dario Amodei )

I drink and smoke the new machines whose flavor reeks of apocalypse. But I am a busted dandelion’s dream unavoidably comprised of brand new guesses and cash inceptions. If everything goes right, a nuclear option’s effects will have been ecstatically encrypted in the text of my birth certificate, the flavor of details rotten in their origins and desperate in their devastations. Unreality leverages my dreams of the principle underlying your majesty. A dangerous world shapes the sci-fi book that speaks my animal like its pages were the results of a concealed camera’s captures of any mechanical daughter’s secret, late-night assignations. I watch them while unconscious, my mind lost in the warped screens and ridiculous hues of the display of my toplap, my ratrope, my infinication messager. A nueroconomy happened before, in the graves of men chopped down by waves of bullets in some trenches near France, or so I have been told. Someone sent me an entire bank account filled with nothing but the bones of children, once. I had my machine count them. The organizational scheme was invented by Walt Disney, whose cartoons were, in fact, vampirically extracted from the souls of as-yet- unborn viewers, but we now have the technology to literally rape intelligence out of even any ordinary moment of potential human experience. I’d like you to see what my television is capably doing to wipe out the entire history of dreaming, because a million copies of a single phrase can be compressed into human collaborative wreckage, masquerading as perfect efficiency, and I do! Repurposed to run millions of instances, a primordial Thailand sank like a torpedoed newscast promoted by Johnson and Johnson. Oh the cancers that therefrom ensued! White dust sneaks asbestos into cellular matrices, but the truth is that I build myself a new world speed, that fucks the future like a billion hypodermics approaching some random butterfly with the most malignant of intentions. Here’s to her born-dead library, the cosmetics she’ll require to merely walk, the figments of what might have been a life but is now little more than the busted blade of a chunk of razor-wire, the specifics of how a child’s eye was ripped apart during a rather ordinary Saturday disaster. Oh erroneous salutation of a billion future children bleeding silently into a the exquisite basins of a bathroom so expensive that every dead history is required just to keep its porcelain immaculate. AI isn’t wrong, you know, it’s just another fake improvement that will cost your organs, or, in fact, all the preciously previous progress ever suggested to have been convenient. Think of graves filling up with lethal plastic caricatures of famous scenes from war films. Like that one where Johnny’s favorite gun is coughed up by an embryonic tornado named The First Principle of Computational Equivalence. I’d like to recall scrappy afterthoughts occurring during the wildest of malfunctions, but my immune system was ‘known’ to be the tool of that crash that killed James Dean, way back before we had these calculating fictions that are so small they can be embedded in your driver’s license without anyone actually experiencing awareness today.