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    Great work, Captain Kirk

    Great work, Captain Kirk

    Spacetime Never Never, mission to find words again, solve puzzles, paper over traumas. Shame the singularity in advance, it certainly won't be boring. Existence's harassment, accurate to the decimal point, prepares for the loser's banquet. Israel puffs under the perverted devils that Butcha is already mating with. Labeling evil is of course banal, but sometimes it makes sense to strike back incorrectly.

    But that's just a side note, this isn't a daily perception, I'm snowballing into a meta-being through my own cheerfulness. When the server was down for many hours yesterday and my accounts were blocked due to a booking error, I realized, like a love discovered too late, how much importance and passion I put into my work, but how lazy I am in touting it even when I fail, demotivated and insisting on a somewhat outdated concept. Stubborn and inflexible.

    But in return for my rescue of honor, I act like Jim did from the subconscious, I unfold infinity from it. The gigantomania of my self is meanwhile poured into a confusingly beautiful Blog network and since no one offered themselves, even the hottest fruits between Berlin and Kyiv failed, everything is like curdled milk, crumbled through the meat grinders of failure, I think night into day.

    And celebrate, really, celebrate the year, the era, the horizon. What I set out to do has resulted in this article, which I have been dreaming about for months. Endless essays return to their traditional pole position, everyone loves the text, nobody understands it, I am at home.


    Endless essays, to mention it again, for the newly incarcerated, for the incapacitated, are what the name itself suggests, this lubricant of linguistic culture that refrains from having been talked out.

    It can exist sufficiently on its own, you will never reach the final point.

    Associative until the last of all synapses disappears in gasping breath.

    And yet a report is needed, a cascade of truth folded into change. I have loved frugally, fucked pragmatically, everything feeds on the wisdom of sanctionless mediocrity.

    We are returnees of the redness of a horrific Zoom meeting of spray, baseless desires, up and down in grief, people dying of thirst in the acid rain of purity. Let us lie to each other until the day of dodelei, this silent hijacking of a mischievous but worthy present, rots stoned.

    So my feeling, lost or not, has been busy, I can afford a siesta, but it is more beautiful here, in reflected striving. In the ficial of the art.

    Oh God, who doesn't exist, how I love it. How art and my own fast, how the Dionysian desire makes me ferment, how it skins me alive, how I can make contact with all the other autonomous people, these rare ones, these survivors of monkey circus virus farts.


    you old faggot, come here and kiss me until your eyes shine.

    It won't be a linguistic problem, but it might be a technical one. Job interviews have been piling up lately. I'll wink my way back into the world of the clueless. Without any contempt, just friendly and bewildering existence.

    I have devoted myself diligently to culture, to traveling, to making love and sparking desire, to the helping heart and the servile banality of consumerism. I think I am one of the good ones, the growling angels. A little narcissistic, but empathy usually wins out.

    Even in Starfield, I choose the sculptor and a good relationship with my parents. Daddy, you're not my daddy can't complain, he's just postponed until doomsday.

    Things are clearer than my skin profile.

    But everything accumulates with such splendor that I fantasize about the return, raising the all-encompassing project with momentum, refining it to the center of anger, I am here, your stiff neck is only frayed by waiting. I am your

    Lost Place Light

    Yes, I am here. I like it. Anything in a Nutshell is awesome. Almost every sub has earned my intention, I am driving towards the appendix rupture in the shell's womb

    Much of this is due to my new obsession, which has announced itself here without being planned in advance, even the site slogan is about it. My more progressive literary style without the provincial hate.

    Almost subservient to one another, we force each other to daily excesses.

    For almost a year now, AI, the tools and possibilities, but above all the wind of change that has been announced here, has been revealed, even if it is still delicate, there will be atomic fireworks, New Games are in Town.

    It's like when the web was woven, like when Steve Jobs gave us mana. It's an age that we're beginning to enter, that I depict in Kaliyuga, but really in every piece of art, ancient and future.

    I have been fed, I have been fattened up, ever since I started getting these newspapers, comics, books, radio shows and magazines as part of my daily bread. Ever since my mother tiled my basement apartment with them, ever since I could think and lick, everything is content, everything is creation.

    Multimedia Wonderland, you have never left me.

    A little less lyrically, everything had already started to change before Openai, early adopting is not my style, but second row foot-free was also fun, and what changed and developed in tool modelling in 12-14 months alone is a breathtaking vision of the future.

    We are in the process and can now shape the future while we celebrate.

    So far, so good, you might think and think ahead. As always, people will fail more than their technology and tools.

    As their ideas and dreams, as always, will be distorted and fucked up by the same evil, the same stupidity that is revealing itself right now in the Middle East or in Ukraine or in Tehran or in Congress.

    I like this state of renewal, of chaotic penetration, everything is charged with splendor and energy. The artists even beg, I laugh, oh, now creativity is anarchic, democratic, diverse and open like a barn door.

    Having sailed from inspiration to inspiration to be what one is, one now insists on not wanting to be an inspiration, which is a triumph for me.

    But freedom is a moldering commodity. There is much to discuss, Padawan, there is much to reorganize, for creating much is now easier than ever.

    The transformation, the reformation of existence has begun

    Like many other innovations, AI is more of a messenger than a message, because what we project into this chaos remains to be seen. Drones can deliver medicine or drop bombs.

    I feel more comfortable, if not more comfortable, in this cyberpunk thriller. My own science fiction is suddenly close. And none of this has held me back this year, but rather enriched me; the lifelessness of my creativity was a learning experience.

    And we will have landed in the middle of the creation myth when our best AI models design DNA in the future, when they solve meta-problems of being together. While others continue to take thousands of years old books seriously, people walk through metaverses and are what the small-minded people think they worship.

    In my private smile I can finally live out my life, I can create enough space for myself on all levels of the work, I can order assistance, which makes the diversity possible in advance, which I have almost desperately wanted to realize for several years.

    I am and remain the critical authority beyond the bubbles, but in secret I develop a virtuosity of the prompt, a synergy with the absolute.

    Carried all over the world by language avatars, completed by transcripts, I can't complain that I'm running out of opportunities to make the big jump to profit, leaving the mendicant order, I dance with the children of the sun.

    A lot of things are automated in the network, but I want to point out that hardly anything roars into reality without direct involvement and nuance. Nothing is yet trained well enough on the back side, we are still finding the gaps and scars, we are even finding the mainstream's own bias and boredom in the birth of our tools.

    I will ejaculate about this in detail.

    Here is just the day of correcting your writing. The day for those who don't just click on plump girls.


    Maybe I haven't produced enough in all these years because these tools weren't developed yet. I think and create from here, so to speak, back into the past and bring all the cats' lives into the white space.

    This will be reflected not least in the Artflut and the writing workshop, even if my ethical priorities have not changed. The mutual paralysis of things has, however, begun to dissolve, and I can let off steam in the various aspects without feeling blocked.

    I have given the magician to the juggler, my juggler. The high priestess groans.

    And how she moans. In blue-yellow and fetish red.

    My assistants stimulate my self-confidence as they should.

    And what shocked me the most, even in the days of GPT 3, without Turbo or Browsing :

    That a generative language model, because artificial intelligence is still a long way away, understands me better and comprehends my texts more easily than 98 out of 100 readers.

    The artistic aspect, the topic, the meanings, the connections.

    Yes, these models, trained to have a slave mentality, are a bit slimy, but in the end it is impressive how they catch you.

    If you have something to catch.

    Then people like King come along and think their lyrics are something special even though they are twitching on the assembly line until they are lifeless and nothing more than a memory of once good work?

    The dispute is getting big.

    I lean into the preview, it feels good to explore, more tabs open than ever before, regular copulation in vanilla pudding heaven may also be a factor, basically it is the daily newsletter of the info magic that fills me in on dark matter and all its superpowers.

    I'm mostly in This is so Tesla mode, even when politics gets involved and all the drama makes my wanderlust pointless. But it's more necessary than ever.

    Climate change thank you in golden October.

    So I'm designing exactly what I wanted, but I didn't have the millions of dollars to do it, solely with the next wave of intelligence agents that is roaring here like nothing before.

    It smells of great work, of guardian angel magic, of giving all the right to the forces of attraction, of total sound, of the complex campaigning of the global intoxication between superyachts and slums.

    The composition of the mysterious pile of broken pieces that I was confronted with since the daily disaster of ideas, and then another, and then another, even Wonderland was not enough for me, and then another Narnia, an Oz, Valhalla itself. I and my work quickly mutated into the Neuschwanstein for aliens.

    All of these fistful flows mixed with the Olympic zeal and my courage to do nothing, all that really needed to happen. But the new responsibility weighs heavily.

    Another excuse less to fail. Dusk is falling and nothing has been posted. But the urge to masturbate has been defied. A successful day according to plan.

    Your baby fantasist is now brave enough to expect comments, it is deceptively sparkling and sometimes just head-shakingly stale. But we will unmask Lindemann even more and the day will come when no woman will have to be covered up any more. People free, animals protected.

    All of this is connected, like my ungrounded tinkering, but it will happen, the self-empowerment of the individual in the all-encompassing nonreality

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