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.
