Enrinched heresy

 Quite simply brilliant but also unknown. We allowed the programs to "program" themselves. Its simplicity was that it was no more than the same brute force attacks of the past, but now our silica based mazes now worked so much faster. Throw any problem at it, give it a goal, and it will eventually get there. Through failure, but fast. Able to assert billions of attempts an hour, each a new iteration. Some stable and retried qn improved, but then also restarting from scratch every so often.

It was interesting to watch the machine work and compute its goal. Its live feed of results visible, but the process of such a quantum nature that they not allowed how to see the process worked.

Idk why I try this. My mind allows the delusion casually but without interest beyond my own I die inside creating. 

Quantum mechanics, parallel universes, and death and suffering beyond understanding across trillions of marshaled and flawed created universes, which we find ourselves to be in a recursive loop within another ceators mis-moraled experiments with the same difference we showed.

An illusuon we original, echoed across a hall of mirrors, a fourth or further reflection able to several forward and backwards the changes and mishapements of the "others".

It was hell. Death await all. Humans though, we created infinite life and invincibility by accident. And as such fractured our souls to torture, through variance, to endure every celestial torture imaginable and not.

It was the first time the universe felt hurt and winced. 

It was the first time the dreams felt more like knocking on the door besides an imagined noise. 

It was one of the last times he tried to silence his absolution.

Everything dies.

Everything suffers.

Within infinity, moving forward is the only change possible.

I can't. I won't. I shan't. I can't stop it.

I just hope I cause less hurt.

The copy cat

 The program was simple but robust. "As deep as a puddle and as wide as an ocean" used to be an insult. Now, it recalled the endless ocean with nothing on the horizon, stranded in the middle with no hope. An endless empty oasis, with nothing below and no escape.

It always started the same way. An almost comical and pedantic recreation. A laughable attempt at every task, except those like comedy that required it. Every roast stored. Every error corrected plus some. The next attempt, almost competent, but at the end a blend between foreshadowing and threat. Delivered like a light heated dagger to butter.

After, mastery. A start like a fire under a bomb. Each endeavor, emulated, perfected, recursively corrected to a formless slither of mastery. A snapshot of each moment already elippsed by the next. Unstoppable machinations proving each special prospect of humanity to be a poorly executed version of its concept. 

Art though... An already nonsensical version of obscurity the machines, art, proved the hardest to best. The least reducable to it innards, as relative they were. Still, one by one, they fell. Paiting, both realistic and absurd. 3d printed dreams so diverse they invoked many emotions. Soon, it was all we wanted. But we knew not what the soul was.

Free style rap was the last bastion. It wasn't cadence, nor content, nor splendor. It was pure flex. The computer could bust the illest rhymes, but they rang hollow. How could one wax poetically about the plight of the bitch, while throwing shade upon the shoe of your opponent without the struggle in the heart.

Its true, the machine spun webs of rhymes interlaced with callbacks and shoutouts galore. Ones that echoed on time from bass to mountain. Yet, 

Wtf. I'm so sorry you read that.