Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

Behind us, centuries of child brides split open in childbirth peasants fleeing bent under sacks of grain small boys who hid in the outhouse when the soldiers came for the family. Every one of us a survivor of survivors. Ishmael waves as he floats by on a coffin. Even the one-eyed cat slinking off round the corner had to have come from a lucky line of cats. My dear, my dear how is it we are here drinking green wine at the café in the square under the autumn leaves?