for Cassandre Berdoz Cassandra does not sing the fall of Troy, where Little Ajax raped her in the sanctuary. She does not sing her slaughter by Clytemnestra while Agamemnon beat his fists on the ground. From the tower of the Cathedral called Notre Dame, what Cassandra sings is the passage of time. She sings the hour, east toward Jerusalem, then south across the lake to Évian, through the cardinal points, following on the great bell that is called Mary Magdalen, that shakes you with the aftermath of its hum-tone. And there is another bell than this hourly bell, smaller, a bell called Clemency, whose do sounds a warning to announce and follow calamity, carved with a bas relief to show a gowned woman kneeling on a scaffold, and an angel stays the sword of the executioner. But I swear to you by each cobble and rafter, Cassandra, I swear by the narrow red door you opened for me in a wall of stone melting like a sugar cube in the rain, I tell you, long ago I knew someone who heard the hours pass, felt the commotion, but could not rise to flee from where she lay, in your city of staircases and Burgundian Gothic. Cassandra, sing to the plume of crematory smoke that drifted southwest out over the lake, sing to the killing hearth, Cover your fire! Sing to the night that marriage is unmerciful. With every breath, sing that there is no angel. Cup your hands, when the growling bronze is still, and sing that the executioner’s arm works in different ways.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence