just a bad dream. For now…
the door opened suddenly
and it hit the
poor dog who scowled and
got out of the way
before the woman entered
"Oh, for fuck's sake!” she shouted
Her hands were busy with
shopping bags. They looked heavy
and she looked tired
and quite pissed
and grew even more pissed
when she laid eyes on her husband,
in the living room,
sprawled on the couch,
buried under cigarette ashes
and empty beer cans
The house smelled of
singed hairs from his knuckles and
arms. Even burnt skin
and clothes
The small holes in his shorts
looked like crawling cockroaches
fighting over the crumbs in his lap
He greeted his wife with a
deep belching sound
and closed his eyes
"What the hell you doing?” she
yelled, loud enough to
make him open his eyes
"Dying,” he said
"What?”
"Dying.”
"Listen here, you piece of shit, I left
the house hours ago
and you were pretty much living.
What the hell happened in this
time?”
"I quit my job,” he said. "I quit writing.”
"You what?”
"Yeah. What's the point anymore? They
make all the art now.”
"They?”
"AI”
"What?”
"Artificial Intelligence, love. It took over
art. Completely. You literally just
punch some key words into a
search engine and the AI generates
art based on them.
First were the painters. They all died.
Painters.
People who draw.
People who design things.
Architects.
And eventually... us, writers and poets.
AI killed us all.
There is nothing left for us to do
but to die.”
His wife said nothing. Just
placed the shopping bags down
and came to face him
and sighed
"Darling,” she said, "it apparently
happened yet again.
You... are an idiot. Period.
But I guess that's what happens when
the faculty of imagination is
far more developed compared to that
of intelligence.
The goddamned AI... it's in that last
novel you're writing, isn't it?”
"Huh? What?”
"You're writing a novel about AI taking
over art, aren't you?”
"Oh... Damn. I... Uh, I love you. I mean,
what would I do
without you?”
"You dumbass...”
***
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