Grim Pilgrims gather: ‘Thanks.’ I give thanks too, as the last leaves fly, that he did not live on but yellow & skin-thin & grinning ceased. True that his harvest due only was beginning, that no sun distracted his widow in her calm dismay; but count up then his gain, — Paris unfallen, Hiroshima tall, millions of Jews walking, Gandhi spinning, treacheries that sprain our hopes unspun, promises unmade all that proved just talking. The ballet of your dying hope no more tortures me with its fool. What childish plan ’s this, keen on living? Embryonal adeno-carcinoma, grade 4. ’Twas in the testes, there since you began. Fume, hiss. Happy Thanksgiving. 
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence