Oh how I rejoice that you are sky and kaleidoscope that you have so many artificial stars that you glow in a monstrance of brightness, when I place your perforated half-globe over my eyes under the air. How unstrained in abundance, oh colander spoon! The stove too is beautiful: it has tiles and chinks, it may be grizzled, silver, gray—even drowsy. . . but especially when it shuffles its glints or as it sets and through the whole rhythm of its imperfections whitely poured in charred bells it flows into elements of monumental bedding.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence