On the sandy path that goes by my door and leads to the station of dreams, where I had just walked, a muffled cry reached my ear. I stopped walking and saw a clump of dry, drowsy grass. The cry came from the ground. A root deplored being without news from the stem up there with its boughs, its flowers and its fruit, maybe even its trunk in full maturity. “Why was I, newly born, the ancestor, thrown into a dungeon, my maternal task complete, like a convict, or worse, a useless being, without my having seen, known or recognized the world— and what mouth pronounced the injustice of my fate.”
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence