Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

The old painter stands by the studio window, where his brushes and colors lie.   Poets wait for inspiration, but objects and faces assault the painter, they arrive shrieking.   Their contours, though, have blurred and faded. Objects turn blind, mute.   The old painter feels only a dim wave of light, a longing for form.   And he knows even now that he may see again the bitter joy of indistinction.