For years I lived on the mountain, but I never drank from the high stream where it flashes over gray scree on its way down to the valley after percolating through the glacier that holds grains of carbon and pollen, maize and grasses, smoke, plague and famine, spores of fungus on the manure of cattle, a thousand years legible in its core. I wanted my words to be like that, but I was too careful in my body. Then one day I found I was dragging a sled twice my weight through a plush tunnel studded with fool’s gold and inhabited by pale eyeless creatures and mouths. In one of a hundred gleaming caves, I stopped to consider a hunger that sickens before it is sated. I found I starved down nicely. I slept in a fetal curl and earned some weeks of my own foul making. When I woke, it was with the taste of bitter coins in my mouth, and the stream was nowhere in sight. I was ready to drink anything I could read through.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence