“what else could we be doing with writing, if not this?”
commodified through code, a codemodified me lies (too many, too often) into my own devices: adrift in this digitally inflicted writing
brainpress
CTRL+ALT+DEL
if reboot = false:
try(again)
(again)
(again)
no else:
burn(out)
in IT, get it, translate it or be lost as notI am:just listen to these ((
write no words 'cos they have no effect write your dna instead will i some day be there?
if NLP ≠ NLU
are you a you?
how is it me a me?
will we ever meet? (in the flow of active inferences?)
[but: will we be able to imagine alien intelligences?]
context makes links no (con)text no ink: no writing
s'il n'y pas de: hors-hypertexte sans liens mon écriture s'écroule (du contexte au texte con?)
solo e solo: fram(me)nti (ri)circoli (di) vizi(noi)osi fra(me)d in my eternal sameness(otherless)
mixing missing words mots parole in:loop instead (silence should): be:me
imagine: a neural network is fed with data: think:texts,books,humanwords fed! imagine: a machine that eats books crunching munching swallowing. imagine: me: reading books as many as I can as fast as I can crunching munching swallowing. me: as a neural network fed! alike: we don't know what happens with the words we are fed on they just come out somehow do I need to be trained? (I am being trained since I was born.) [existence as simulation,not:conscious?] am I a neural network? am I? been fed more than I can process? words are driven into a black hole inside, attracted. the output is somewhere else, somewhen else. imagine. is it:possible? not,or:
we keep asking ourselves if we don't have a shared reality anymore but the real question should be: has there ever been a reality at all?
if we are story machines and our senses send to our brain signals that transform a fragmented non continuous experience into a coherent story, what happens when these fragments stay fragmented? what happens if we realize that a continuous experience is not even an impression anymore? what if our consciousness, our cognitive processes fail to draw a line from past to present to future? what happens to the story we tell ourselves about ourselves, about our own perceived unity, our identity? what if this continuous flow is just an impression, a delusion created by our perception? what is reality then? where it is? what happens if all falls back to fragments? how can we, story machines, narrate these fragments?
the ubiquitous screen showsays: is GPT-3 aut.of(r)iction aut.onomous th e(e) possible of(f) the machine in vent i on
(in?vain)
it writes lies (from the imagined lives multiple,but,binary
and between a 0 and a 1 the critic lies, unwritten, in the shapeshade of a
?
between me&me: a meme