The Fourth Day

Ha! I told you, Feet! What did I tell you? Didn't I tell you? Getting used to anything takes a joke of a time only. Now I know that's scary, it means we can get used to being a prostitute, or tortured, or torturer, but the point is to have choice, to be able to sway the deterministic dial ever so slightly to better ends. And ends they are, mustn't we forget. All work is ultimately in vain, we just do it to make the pointless pointful. Definitely to have fun, to build towards greater magnitudes of fun, before we descend back into the rank of the dusts. • No problemo, I'd like to say, but towards the end one of the more sentient robots managed to attack me symbolically, my only weakness. He spouted about statistics and probabilities, about how my beard can be a definite an invisible impediment. Now, I take criticism from robots with a bucket of salt, but his knowing tone, synthetic and electronic as it was, got to me. Can I defeat them, without playing the game fully? How deep can I let myself into their web? How many cybernetic appendages can I fasten to myself before gladly forsaking my lingering ghost? Who knows. Perhaps there is a glass ceiling for this that I don't know about, nor can I care. Like everyone, useful as it would be, I don't wait to know my time of death. I don't want to corrupt my experience of the Now by crystallizing the inevitable: that would be tantamount to transmuting the Now into the End, obliterating any meaning I had managed to inject into the Now. No sir, I move Against. • The robots seem to be getting fooled. Perhaps they think I'm just a new model with good insulation so you don't hear the cooling fans. Perhaps a really good RANDOM function that simulates humans convincingly. But convincing for whom? For the Green Overlord, the sum of all fake desires, the grand illusion. Whatever, who cares what they think, or rather, what they reprocess.