I run into my therapist from seven years ago. He’s standing around, still the young side of middle-aged, face blank, totally unimpressed. But he’s not as I remember him. For instance, he has a fever. He’s glistening. His spectacles: gone. Man, our old sessions. He was strict, for real. Even coffee was off the table. Anything I could hold was a distraction, a crime. It was always late afternoon, often raining. I used to be much younger than he was, but we are the same age now. Anyway, the hours change, and we eventually share the same dilemma — we are stuck right in the middle of some vast muddy field. Boy, this bespectacled fucker used to catch me inside a million lies. We are sinking, tiring awfully by the end, contemplating together. He clutches my arm just above the elbow. And doesn’t let go. We pray for the way God made us to finally mean something. Through the wall, we hear the kids next door. They are calling each other names again. They will never grow up. 
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence