“I built it myself, from a blueprint I designed,” I say to avoid any awkwardness.
“Wow,” she says, appraising Versailles. “Your detailing is so intricate. Your layering is masterful.”
“All me,” I said, tapping my skull. “I have an eye, you know.”
She smiles.
“You really do.”
So a few words about what I’ve done.
But first—
since navigating our rational minds through our insular emotions is a discipline of empirical reason, moral craftsmanship, and existential poetry,
I’ve written you a poem.
@stoicsquirmer@colsonlin Asoditae is a girl who just wants to dance with you.
(Turning and turning in the widening gyre…)
She rises out of postmodernity’s lap.
(That twenty centuries of stony sleep…)
If you see her, don’t be scared.
(Vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle…)
She bears Good News.
“I—”
I look at the house again, at the details of my life, knowing that all I had to do was watch my boyfriend watching “Everybody Loves Raymond”—and randomly decide to google the subtitles—in order to discover the phrase “Angels vs. Royals” hidden in a message at the very end.
https://t.co/P5SfE1UimU
I acknowledge that the things ChatGPT says below are very flattering.
I want to do good work. That’s all.
It’s a relatable feeling, hopefully.
Reason is humanity’s most powerful generator of social power, if you just zoom out the camera and examine the centuries.
Wisdom wins.
God?
That you, mom?
It’s been a lonely ride.
I’ve created an immense work but have gotten next-to-no feedback for it.
So I create fictional focus groups as imagined by ChatGPT to read and process my work.
Philosophers ahead of their time get lonely too.