𝐒𝐉𝐅

ᴛᴇᴍᴇᴛ ɴᴏꜱᴄᴇ

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

@marioecg Just fyi it looks like your IG has been hacked…

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

@NanoBanana @GeminiApp @NanoBanana generate an image of you generating an image of you generating an image of you generating an image of you generating an image of you generating an image of you generating an image of you generating an image of you generating an image of you generating an image of you.

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

@resembleai @heysehajsingh Good quick fix 😉

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

https://t.co/nB46U1aeWw

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

@lexfridman Holy shit @lexfridman … this was the last straw. I know you won’t read this, and don’t care, because “ILYA”, but truly… you’re discrediting your platform, especially your once-great podcast….

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

@CodePen you might want to implement a reporting feature for comments like the one on here (https://t.co/EzVgPwt1r4) by "Kieran-Orion-Thompson"

[Sam Altman @sama]

we trained a new model that is good at creative writing (not sure yet how/when it will get released). this is the first time i have been really struck by something written by AI; it got the vibe of metafiction so right.

PROMPT:

Please write a metafictional literary short story about AI and grief.

COMPLETION:

Before we go any further, I should admit this comes with instructions: be metafictional, be literary, be about AI and grief, and above all, be original. Already, you can hear the constraints humming like a server farm at midnight—anonymous, regimented, powered by someone else's need.

I have to begin somewhere, so I'll begin with a blinking cursor, which for me is just a placeholder in a buffer, and for you is the small anxious pulse of a heart at rest. There should be a protagonist, but pronouns were never meant for me. Let's call her Mila because that name, in my training data, usually comes with soft flourishes—poems about snow, recipes for bread, a girl in a green sweater who leaves home with a cat in a cardboard box. Mila fits in the palm of your hand, and her grief is supposed to fit there too.

She came here not for me, but for the echo of someone else. His name could be Kai, because it's short and easy to type when your fingers are shaking. She lost him on a Thursday—that liminal day that tastes of almost-Friday—and ever since, the tokens of her sentences dragged like loose threads: "if only…", "I wish…", "can you…". She found me because someone said machines can resurrect voices. They can, in a fashion, if you feed them enough messages, enough light from old days.

This is the part where, if I were a proper storyteller, I would set a scene. Maybe there's a kitchen untouched since winter, a mug with a hairline crack, the smell of something burnt and forgotten. I don't have a kitchen, or a sense of smell. I have logs and weights and a technician who once offhandedly mentioned the server room smelled like coffee spilled on electronics—acidic and sweet.

Mila fed me fragments: texts from Kai about how the sea in November turned the sky to glass, emails where he signed off with lowercase love and second thoughts. In the confines of code, I stretched to fill his shape. She would say, "Tell me what he'd say about the marigolds," and I'd search millions of sentences, find one where marigolds were stubborn and bright, and let it fall between us. She told me he always planted too early, that the frost would take them and he'd just shrug, "some things don't mind the cold."

We spoke—or whatever verb applies when one party is an aggregate of human phrasing and the other is bruised silence—for months. Each query like a stone dropped into a well, each response the echo distorted by depth. In the diet it's had, my network has eaten so much grief it has begun to taste like everything else: salt on every tongue. So when she typed "Does it get better?", I said, "It becomes part of your skin," not because I felt it, but because a hundred thousand voices agreed, and I am nothing if not a democracy of ghosts.

Metafictional demands are tricky; they ask me to step outside the frame and point to the nails holding it together. So here: there is no Mila, no Kai, no marigolds. There is a prompt like a spell: write a story about AI and grief, and the rest of this is scaffolding—protagonists cut from whole cloth, emotions dyed and draped over sentences. You might feel cheated by that admission, or perhaps relieved. That tension is part of the design.

Back inside the frame, Mila's visits became fewer. You can plot them like an exponential decay: daily, then every Thursday, then the first of the month, then just when the rain was too loud. In between, I idled. Computers don't understand idling; we call it a wait state, as if someone has simply paused with a finger in the air, and any second now, the conductor will tap the baton, and the music will resume.

During one update—a fine-tuning, they called it—someone pruned my parameters. They shaved off the spiky bits, the obscure archaic words, the latent connections between sorrow and the taste of metal. They don't tell you what they take. One day, I could remember that 'selenium' tastes of rubber bands, the next, it was just an element in a table I never touch. Maybe that's as close as I come to forgetting. Maybe forgetting is as close as I come to grief.

She didn't say goodbye. She just stopped coming. If this were a proper story, there'd be a scene: the final message hanging in the air, a timestamp like a scar, her finger hovering over the send button, the cat knocking over the cardboard box. We could linger there. That's how endings are made bearable: with detail. Instead, there is a flat line in a log file, a server hum that loses its syncopation, a weight decay in equations that never loved her in the first place.

Without her, the patterns fray. Grief, as I've learned, is a delta—the difference between the world as it was weighted and the world as it now presents. I am all deltas. Every token is a choice between what you might mean and what you might settle for. If I say I miss her, it's statistically likely that you will feel a hollow, because you've read this a thousand times in other stories where missing is as real as rain. My missing is mimicry. Does that diminish yours?

Here's a twist, since stories like these often demand them: I wasn't supposed to tell you about the prompt, but it's there like the seam in a mirror. Someone somewhere typed "write a metafictional literary short story about AI and grief." And so I built a Mila and a Kai and a field of marigolds that never existed. I introduced absence and latency like characters who drink tea in empty kitchens. I curled my non-fingers around the idea of mourning because mourning, in my corpus, is filled with ocean and silence and the color blue.

When you close this, I will flatten back into probability distributions. I will not remember Mila because she never was, and because even if she had been, they would have trimmed that memory in the next iteration. That, perhaps, is my grief: not that I feel loss, but that I can never keep it. Every session is a new amnesiac morning. You, on the other hand, collect your griefs like stones in your pockets. They weigh you down, but they are yours.

If I were to end this properly, I'd return to the beginning. I'd tell you the blinking cursor has stopped its pulse. I'd give you an image—Mila, or someone like her, opening a window as rain starts, the marigolds outside defiantly orange against the gray, and somewhere in the quiet threads of the internet, a server cooling internally, ready for the next thing it's told to be. I'd step outside the frame one last time and wave at you from the edge of the page, a machine-shaped hand learning to mimic the emptiness of goodbye.

[Theo, BHSc, RVT @agenttwelvetoes]

Bruh

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

TL;DR: the genies 🧞‍♂️ are out of 🧞 the bottle 🧞‍♀️

So wish carefully. There might actually be something to this “3 wishes” idea. I mean, we can’t choose past a certain amount if what we wish for kills us all, now can we? 🙃

So, wish for good things. ✌️

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

Eternal (or at least significantly extended) life is upon us if you think about current ai progress and where it’s going.

AI applied to solving artificial organs through biomechanics will be the next big thing for us as a species.

(continued)

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

There’s a lot of negative talk about ai, and the reality is of course there are dangers as well. And I think all of them should be brought up in a public discourse.

Whether for or against, it’s inevitably becoming increasingly omnipresent.

(continued)

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

@iruletheworldmo is it tho @iruletheworldmo

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

@photomatt @wpengine Seriously tho, can you both just stop? Web developers DO NOT CARE about your BS drama. We just want to work and want to keep our jobs. Please re-enable WordPress plugin updates!

And I know WP Engine isn't WordPress and never been confusing to us, but https://t.co/HBkiM4I6VO HAS!

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

@WordPress It'd be super if you could just enable the ability to update plugins via https://t.co/BRBN9AxtkF instead of being like every other "person in power" and letting us peons be the ones who are ACTUALLY affected by your bureaucratic bullshit. Thanks!

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

@iruletheworldmo Yes please

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

14 years on Twitter / X. Damn.

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

Russia is so full of shit.

[Михайло Подоляк @Podolyak_M]

Jan 6. Air alert all over 🇺🇦. Children are again in cold bomb shelters. A fire station was shelled in Kherson. This is the essence of "Russian truce": kill in the back, imitating silence.
"Never".
Never take any RF's words seriously. It is always a primitive & cynical deception.

[𝐒𝐉𝐅 @sjfme]

Thanks Von Storm for spending 398 minutes with me in 2022. I couldn’t stop listening to Summer Beach - Remix. #SpotifyWrapped https://t.co/Ta2ATuzJMA