sitting in the bower after lunch with my sadness like unto Magdalene our defectiveness known all around the town (a passion for extravagant apology) (flimsy promise to do better from now on) I knew the crowd had stones heating the hollows of their hands (the teacher has always shown me the underlying structure of a situation, though often years after I no longer cared, was no longer there, at all) stone and bread are alike in the hands of the just bread and stone the same
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence