Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

How good it is, to sip a beer outdoors, with winter drawing near, above the wreckage of a meal. How good, before the bill comes due, to watch a copper light gleam through an ale infused with chanterelle and trust yourself to only those sensations of the tongue and nose, what’s felt, and how it makes you feel. A sip held in the mouth evokes a golden bloom among the oaks and water drawn up from a well one afternoon spent near the source of happiness, atop a horse that now stands idle in its stall. These days you keep too much inside, but once you foraged far and wide through pastures north of Carbondale. How fine, that you have faintly caught a sour note of apricot so deep in the cloudy dregs of fall, the past in what has come to pass, and cradle in your palm a glass of once, a final swig of ale.