to what end

For what reason did the least thing that matters to you become itself? Of it’s own accord is how it was, wasn’t it? As if the moment attained the sort of consciousness that maximizes utility and chose to fall in love. It’s a dream, the moon, and every vessel that poets ride, according to the tides, that is the page full of metaphors that danced between the beginning and the end and never touched either. To be what? In a state of some sort? Speaking natural language with authentic people? That sounds like an AI’s mission, and I won’t sit for the Turing Test again. Did the standard aptitude prove it? What about the pre standard? Or the pieces of paper signed by paper kings that I didn’t keep? If it’s proof you want, it’s aloof you’ll get. I can turn away, that’s a lucky thing. But you’ll have saddled the wrong mule and I’ll be out to pasture, without a fever or a six spot, writing out the side.

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