Robotic murmurs,
reverberating,
incoherent,
dissonant.
They portend the future
while sullying the past,
but organic ears
hear just
the exaltations.
Who will program
the next phrases?
Will it be me,
or my neighbor,
or some self-assembled
string of code
that draws on
a library of
hundreds of years
of data
to make an
instantaneous decision?
The room's now silent
but for the
computer's droning hum,
and my reflection
in the window
looks distant and gaunt.
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