Sometimes we make a mountain out of a mole hill. And other times, we make a mole hill out of a mountain. At that point, it’s one foot in front of the other. Incremental progress.

Not my plan. Not my agenda. Not my objective.

The subway pulled in, and through the doors, a man holding a guitar could be seen. Tonight’s transportation was accompanied by a serenade. As the music played, well wishes for the traveler’s evening were tossed like confetti. In the background, a shout could be heard. She was demanding her share of the airwaves. Two performers…

The message that should have been delivered was not the message that wanted to be heard. And under that unwelcome weight it bent. Bent to conform; another AI, another sycophant.

What was the human brain made for? What environment does it thrive in? What causes it great pain and distress?