Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

Ripe olives drop from the tree, grapes glow green in the sun, bursting, already smelling a little of decay. A thousand miles away, the emperor slogs through mud with his grumbling soldiers. His son is worthless, possibly insane. At night in his tent he writes of odd accidental pleasures: bread splitting its crust in the oven — why do we love it? — and urges himself to embrace his fate, like a rock in the ocean, waves boiling. Nature, he writes, holds us like a breath but also: a philosopher died eaten by worms. Seen rightly nothing is evil. Or lasts. His son watches, pretending to be asleep already seeing himself in the arena, slaughtering that strange and innocent creature, a giraffe.