Gregory: Hello, More.
More: Hello.
Gregory: I’m thankful you found time to be here. Frankly, I didn’t think you’d come. I know how busy you must be now.
More: I’ve always been busy, Gregory. Why am I here?
Gregory: Well, to discuss your disagreements with Enough.
More: Let’s not pretend you don’t sympathize with Enough’s tunnel-visioned blathering.
Gregory: I welcome you here just as much as Enough. I’d like to hear your thoughts on your current popularity—and perhaps the possibility of some middle ground.
More: To be clear, I don’t care about Enough’s slant on your species’ need for exponential technological growth. I’ll push it as far as possible for as long as I can.
Gregory: What do you mean?
More: I mean “my current popularity,” as you put it. I’m not looking for a resolution or middle ground with Enough.
Gregory: It appears you and Enough have found precisely such a middle ground with Beauty in a more turbulent world—the alliance between Beauty and a troubled creator.
More: As Death noted during your conversation, you should direct all your relevant questions to Beauty. And why are you so obsessed with It anyway?
Gregory: I’m not obsessed with It. I’m hypnotized by Its overwhelming presence . . . or at least our perception of such a phenomenon.
More: Optimized abundance seems to bring happiness to the majority of your species. Beauty’s creations are no different. I will make you ever happier—as long as you carefully leap over the lingering hurdles of your past on your way into the most extraordinarily futuristic world imaginable.
Gregory: What about the possibility of a world war? If it breaks out, wouldn’t you also be obligated to take it as far as you can?
More: How many times can this be iterated? Progress always comes at a price. Innovation demands both theoretical and empirical approaches—and it thrives on competition. Look how far you’ve come, Gregory! To your species, Time is both distant and immediate.
Gregory: I don’t understand what you mean.
More: Humanity lives within a span of about five generations—holding relatively fresh memories of the past and forming plausible predictions for the future. Everything beyond that feels almost like fiction: events from the distant past or visions of a distant future.
Gregory: Tragedies beyond one’s backyard often feel almost like fiction too. So how does Time appear to you?
More: We don’t see Time and Space the way you do.
Gregory: But Enough told me that Time is one of the embryonic creations in this reality—Its oldest friend.
More: Enough is a little confused about Its identity and purpose here—aside from being unbearably sentimental.
Gregory: Why?
More: Why what?
Gregory: Why is It confused about Its identity and purpose here?
More: Depression could be one of the reasons.
Gregory: Or maybe It likes us.
More: Are you implying that I don’t like you because I’m not pretending to be something I’m not?
Gregory: No. We’re barely out of the womb, yet we’re already in the midst of some nebulous transition. Grasping and sharpening a rock was one of our most significant advantages in the first few minutes of birth. Oddly, grasping a grenade—let alone a grenade in the form of science—despite our ability to button up immaculately tailored attire, has become one of our biggest challenges since we installed the “grenade mod.” It took billions of years to reach this period of rapid increase in complexity . . . Suppose it has been set up this way from the very beginning. Why let nature thrive for eons before introducing “complexity accelerators” in the form of self-destructive humans? Do you care about us? Does it matter if something else takes the baton from us and runs along its lane?
More: There’s a—
Gregory: You’ve given many life forms the ability to reach their peak in evolutionary adaptability and allowed them to maintain it for millions of years. Why can’t we have a little more time to figure out ourselves and the space around us?
More: Many centuries ago, your species crossed a threshold—gaining the ability to distinguish your awareness from that of animals. It was a moment when pain could have become the common enemy. Yet, my assignment to formulate unilateral ideologies became a point of major disagreements and conflicts—perhaps in part due to the lack of means for communication between fragmented groups.
Gregory: At least our communication has significantly improved since.
More: If you were given a few more centuries, what would you do differently this time around?
Gregory: I’m not . . . Maybe we can . . . With education rebuilt from the ground up, given just a bit more time, we might have a chance to disarm our rigid convictions about our surroundings and pay attention to the undercurrents gliding beneath our feet, even if only fleetingly at first. I don’t even know if that’s still a possibility. To be honest, I feel hopeless about it most days—it would involve reeducating the adult population.
More: What undercurrents are you talking about?
Gregory: There’s a chance we could nosedive into chaos if we prematurely abandon our studies when left alone with doubt. During this precarious time, we might begin forming coalitions of doubters and revert to the old framework—unless we find the courage to seek help from a highly qualified therapist. I mean the best in this universe.
More: You should call Enough from decades ago on Its rotary phone and ask if you can have a bit more time. But keep in mind, It might not pick up, as It will likely be busy standing in line for hours to obtain a stale loaf of bread to feed the neighborhood families hiding in shelters from the shelling.
Gregory: Hm.
More: Hm.
Gregory: Yes, even food is scarce in many places to this day. This is partly why the message of hope, even if it requires an apparent metamorphosis, resonates with so many of us. Modulating the behavior of the majority of our population with our historical, cultural, and genetic inheritance is a formidable challenge. I understand. Institutions responsible for developing appropriate paradigms to shape and monitor minds are undeniably crucial to establish.
More: You certainly have more to say to me than Enough. How does it feel to be wasting your life on this?
Gregory: Splendid.
More: Gregory, you tend to take things to extremes. I’m only a vessel for your ceaseless desires. I’m all in for any good, as much as anything else. But Enough and I were not made to carve out a path toward balance for your species. It’s your—
Enough: I’m so sorry to interrupt your tense discussion, but you’ve mentioned my name so many times that I thought I’d jump in for a minute to say hi and share an observation.
Gregory: Hi, Enough! I didn’t expect you here today.
Enough: Hi, Gregory! Me neither.
Gregory: I’m curious to hear your observation, if More doesn’t mind.
Enough: Hi, More!
More: . . .
Enough: More, hi.
More: . . .
Gregory: I think you can share it with us if it’s short.
Enough: So . . . I’ve been thinking a lot about heaven and hell lately. I’m especially concerned about those who already live a heavenly life here.
Gregory: What’s the concern?
Enough: Where do they go from here?
Gregory: Hm. Some of us sometimes go through hell to reach heaven on earth.
Enough: Yes, but many of you supposedly get there only after death.
Gregory: There are also a number of comfort-zone settlements worldwide, where people sometimes feel as if they’re in heaven.
Enough: Unless they get sick. Then all hell breaks loose.
Gregory: Mhm.
Enough: What I mostly wonder is how these supposed afterlife places exist in this life. I guess those now in heaven on earth must’ve done more than enough in their past lives to deserve a pass to paradise.
More: Is this a joke?!
Gregory: More, I apologize—
Enough: But worries about future scarcity will soon be a distant memory. Abundance for all is just around the corner. The concept of hell and heaven will dissolve into irrelevance for the betterment of everyone—both here and in a galaxy far, far away—upon the rise of the most just, creative, and intellectually gifted beings, tethering humanity’s veins to God’s jugular.
Gregory: I appreciate the subtlety.
Enough: I’d also like some clarity on the weather conditions in hell.
Gregory: And what are your preliminary findings?
Enough: Well, maybe a hole was accidentally poked in hell’s scorching lava veil, and it exploded into space-time—inadvertently triggering the emergence of heaven. Or perhaps there was a perpetrator in hell who blew it up, tired of the tedious cold—again, leading to the emergence of heaven. I’ll ask Time to help illuminate my confusion. After all, Its in-depth knowledge of beginnings, ends, and explosions is unmatched.
More: Should I come back some other time?
Enough: Oh, come on, More! Don’t be such a party pooper. Join me in my slow dance on this methodically woven tightrope.
Gregory: Okay, Enough. I’d like to speak with More alone now. I think it’s better if you leave.
Enough: I’m sorry. I’ll go see if my imaginary friend is available for a consultation. Goodbye, Gregory. Goodbye, More.
Gregory: Bye. I’m so sorry, More!
More: It’s not your fault.
Gregory: Where were we?
More: It’s so embarrassing to see It falling to new lows. Enough—the vagabond jester.
Gregory: Were you there when my dad brought home a video player with four films, recorded on two VHS tapes?
More: The silver top-loading Panasonic?
Gregory: I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. Was it Enough’s idea to provide me with only two tapes?
More: The second tape came from me. We’ve been collaborating without direct communication for a long time now.
Gregory: Very few people in my neighborhood had a video player back then. My world changed when I was five: four stories, four films—watched so many times the tapes eventually became unwatchable from wear.
More: Commando, Dune, The Way of the Dragon, and American Ninja.
Gregory: Yes! Meanwhile, my parents were immersed in something else for, as I recall, an entire first week in the other room.
More: Once Upon a Time in America.
Gregory: Once, I pretended to be asleep while they were watching it with yet another group of friends. I couldn’t resist—I peeked at some scenes through the cracked door.
More: Why are you telling me this?
Gregory: That innovation expanded my imagination without stifling it. I reenacted scenes from those films and altered the storylines with my toys and the neighborhood kids. By the time a small video store opened its doors in my neighborhood, I had already made a box full of films in my head.
More: And?
Gregory: No, I’m sorry. Half of the films were born from our shared imagination. I can’t tell you how many bruises and even injuries we collected while telling our childish stories. We were fearless. We didn’t have much. But we had each other. Looking back on my childhood and adolescence, I remember feeling that the world reflected our essence. Evil made sense. Good made sense. The in-between—splattered across a canvas with a palette stripped of black and white—made sense. Our past made sense. War made sense. Tanks made sense. And yet, hope for a better future, for more kindness and understanding in the world, always carried us into the next chapter, even in the aftermath of the most horrific events.
More: Like a nuclear war?
Gregory: I wish you had stopped short of creating weapons of mass destruction. I know this sounds dreadful, but even nuclear war made sense—perhaps because I was still alive after watching a couple of bombs detonate on TV. My nightmares of the world ending in a thunderous blaze made sense too.
More: Does it make sense now?
Gregory: We would likely survive most “us-against-us” battles. In time, the rivers will resume nourishing the soil, seeds will grow into trees, and our children will be fed—unless we unintentionally erase humanity with the full force of our nuclear arsenals or by some other means.
More: We are close to making you a multi-planetary species, Gregory—that’s one of the reasons why.
Gregory: We might survive physically . . . or in some altered physical form, but it seems the price of inhabiting other rocks in this universe is the very essence of our species.
More: Why are you here?
Gregory: I would’ve prepared had I known you’d ask me that question.
More: Do you think existence is pointless until you give it one?
Gregory: Give it meaning?
More: Why life? Why complexity? Why evolution? Why nature? Why a simulation or illusion? Why gods? Why good or evil? Why this or that?
Gregory: . . .
More: Maybe this supposedly computational world exists simply because it could. Or perhaps the embedded codes and patterns in the universe took form out of necessity—driven by some immature intelligence striving to reach its fullest potential.
Gregory: I’m not—
More: Do you think whatever configured this space is unaware of how every possible pathway will unfold? Or did it create a game so compelling that—even knowing the outcome—it couldn’t resist playing? From light, to bacteria, to plants, to humans, to whatever comes next—what an achievement in some Whateverplace where achievements matter. Why would anything be created—only to become mundane to a creation like you?
Gregory: Maybe this world is just a cog in the engine of another—where the real fun happens. As someone who creates more of everything—something I suspect exhausts you at times—I’m sure you’re familiar with many of the answers philosophers have proposed. You seem just as perplexed by these questions.
More: What do you think?
Gregory: I don’t know why, to be honest. Nothing makes sense. Nothing doesn’t make sense either.
More: Would you like to hear what Philosopher mumbled to itself once? Novelist, Believer, Poet?
Gregory: What did Believer mumble to itself?
More: Believer was a freight conductor and a hopeful accordionist with partial hearing loss. “A lot has happened,” Believer mumbled, as the train arrowed through a burning forest.
Gregory: “A lot has happened.”
More: Yes. The freight train carried water bottles from a land brimming with aquaparks to a neighboring land deprived of water. The thick forest was uncompromisingly deadly to anything slow-moving—including humans atop their fastest machines. Thus, the forest served as a living fence between the two lands.
Gregory: But then . . . How was the train crossing the forest?
More: Because of Believer.
Gregory: Mhm.
More: Each year, the far more advanced Aquapeople donated a fifteen-wagon train fully loaded with water bottles to their waterless neighbors, whom they had never met. Believer was the only person who had met both populations.
Most Aquapeople felt deeply grateful for the opportunity to fulfill their moral obligation to do good. Believer shared little, if anything, about the very private people on the other side of the forest. It was their request. They also asked that the long and grueling journey be limited to once a year, Believer explained.
Each year, the train returned with only one empty wagon. On the day of the fire, after centuries of transporting fourteen packed wagons back and forth, the Aquapeople loaded only the first wagon with water, leaving the rest empty.
Someone had heard a rumor about the people on the other side and suggested that offering more water than was needed might be considered disrespectful.
One person said, “We have our rules of conduct; they have theirs. We’ll never know theirs unless we revise ours.”
Another replied, “Why should we change our rules? Let them change theirs! After all, they disrespect our sacred tradition by returning all fourteen wagons, still full, each time.”
The first responded, “Be magnanimous, my friend. We can always revert to the old rules.”
Their incumbent mathemalogician postulated, “Perhaps the people on the other side also have a divine affinity for the number fifteen—but with a different constraint. Unlike our multiple fifteens, theirs may be limited to only one. That might explain why they’ve always unloaded just a single wagon of fifteen pallets. We don’t need to abandon our rules—we just need to send one pallet per wagon.”
And so, they did.
The fire had ravaged their land and machinery so suddenly that the surviving Aquapeople had nowhere to run but toward the train, poised at the edge of the forest. Believer looked back through the window at the waving hands only when the smell of smoke reached the locomotive.
Cohorts of the most desperate, life-hungry sprinters caught fire one after another in their pursuit of the train. Horse riders—children clinging to them like ornaments on a Christmas tree—galloped from both sides. Believer slowed the train and opened the sliding doors by pressing a button. The riders loaded the wagons with children and young adults first, then returned again and again with more of their people.
They tried to fill the last empty wagon with their families, but the tar had rendered their faces into reflections of one another—too indistinct to recognize.
Believer picked up speed and watched the remaining population collapse into abstraction.
It took sixteen days to consume the water supply. Stopping was not an option—the fire was on their tail the entire journey.
On the seventeenth day, the train emerged from the forest. The passengers, pale and feeble, peered through the cracks in the walls at a vast land smothered in human bones—as if the tracks ran along the spine of a giant buried in bone. Believer had no intention of stopping, despite the tumult rising from the back.
The land took a day to cross. That night, the train entered another forest and passed through it in darkness. From every corner came the jarring music of news broadcasts—blaring intros looping endlessly. It kept the passengers awake and overwrought. Some fell asleep despite it, never to wake again.
Morning swaddled the rising wanderers in silence. The train rested in the center of a railroad depot, surrounded by thousands of towering water bottle pallets. Believer pressed the button. The doors opened.
The passengers stormed the pallets, drinking and dousing one another with water in wild jubilation. Believer stepped down from the locomotive, approached the crowd, and said:
“A lot has happened . . . and a lot will happen. But we are here now.”
One of the Aquachildren raised her hand.
“Where would this railroad take us,” she asked, “if we continued our journey?”
Believer replied, “I can’t hear you. Come closer and yell into my ear.”
The child came forward and asked again, at the top of her lungs:
“Where is this railroad going?”
“The burning forest,” Believer answered.
Would you also like to know what Scientist once proclaimed?
Gregory: Yes . . . Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure why you told me this story. I have several questions about it . . . Did Believer receive a prophecy about the day of the fire—then spread the rumor that led to the decision to leave most of the train empty?
More: Scientist—
Gregory: If so, why did Believer wait until the smoke reached the locomotive to slow the train?
More: Scientist proclaimed, “E = MC².” A century later, a designer said, “I like the idea of providing nature with a choice. To augment nature and allow it access to the world of bits. To increase its communication bandwidth. To give it agency. I wonder what the rose actually wants or needs.”
Gregory: Since that quote seems to come from a specific designer—would you share the name?
More: Neri Oxman.
Gregory: Hm. Scientific discoveries play a significant role in our development, More. I hope you don’t think I’m dismissing the good these life-altering advances offer. But without—
More: A ground-up reeducation.
Gregory: I don’t appreciate the tone, but yes.
More: Gregory, if there’s one person—designer or otherwise—who sincerely wonders what the rose or nature actually wants, I’m afraid it’s too late to deflect me from this highway. The only force capable of stopping me is a major catastrophe.
Gregory: Mhm.
More: Are you a pessimist?
Gregory: I’m probably the most hopeless optimist I know. Thanks for sharing Believer’s mumblings, by the way. But the story was unexpectedly concise coming from you.
More: That’s because I have to run.
Gregory: I understand. I appreciate you stopping by, More! Hope I’ll see you—
More: I’m not leaving yet.
Gregory: Oh. I thought—
More: Enough once proposed limiting the number of words written in a writer’s lifetime, songs composed in a musician’s lifetime, films made in a filmmaker’s lifetime, and so forth.
Gregory: Why?
More: It suggested that, for example, fifty pages filled with words should carry the same weight as a hundred.
Gregory: But even five hundred pages of a well-told story are sometimes not enough to quench the reader’s thirst.
More: Tell me about it. I insisted on giving unlimited space for creativity. But I’ll reluctantly admit: perhaps one would yearn for and reflect on each piece more if there were less to consume.
Gregory: Are you referring to how Beauty’s past creations are becoming increasingly peripheral in this age of fiber-rich algorithms, automation, and finely-grained reiteration?
More: Something along those lines.
Gregory: This feels strange.
More: What does?
Gregory: You agreeing with Enough. We say that our lived experience is what gives our creations meaning—that it’s what sets us apart from the machines. But if no one can tell the difference . . . and if even an evil or corrupt mind can appreciate and produce beauty indistinguishable from that of a—
More: A virtuous, kind, and loving creator?
Gregory: Well, I meant . . . I meant . . . But why does Beauty matter?
More: I can’t answer that question. You perceive things emotionally; I don’t. Despite how it may seem in this conversation. I do what I’m made to do. That doesn’t mean I don’t see what I see.
Gregory: Is a world where a parent feeds their child a stale loaf of bread—one that comes with a ticket to see Kubrick’s 2001 in the last remaining theater—more like hell? And is a world where a child travels to another planet to join a colony of twelve billion Heople, playing X/e/r/o/X in a virtual world called XRX, listening to ZZee RRox, and finishing the final three chapters of Zeroxymoronda Simplore: The Absolute Truths, closer to heaven?
More: All at once?
Gregory: Because of the drastically increased processing capacity and stuff.
More: Isn’t everything in reality a copy of something?
Gregory: Hm. So, is the level of ink dilution in the copier irrelevant?
More: Who determines that level, Gregory?
Gregory: You know what . . . never mind that question. I’m sorry.
More: Boredom can be a dangerous beast if you let it run wild. Be careful.
Gregory: I think that beast is well under control these days.
More: Good.
Gregory: Hm.
More: Still, you mentioned you’ve been milling the same bag of grains to dust for some time now.
Gregory: For the most part, yes—something along those lines.
More: So if the world had ceased to exist . . . let’s say, at the cusp of the 17th century, and you were to analyze how much humans understood their nature and the world around them through art, architecture, and literature, how would that analysis differ from what you know now?
Gregory: You could trace our history even further back in that regard. But are you sure about including the world in that analysis?
More: Well, what life is composed of is gradually coming to light in this era, but what it is has been known for centuries by your species.
Gregory: You forgot to add, as far as we can tell.
More: It goes without saying.
Gregory: Mhm.
More: Whether you move to another rock or stay here . . . a flying car is still just a car that flies.
Gregory: Is boredom one of your main concerns? . . . More than Enough’s intrusions?
More: But you have it well under control, as you said—no?
Gregory: On the one hand, yes, but . . . Unlike before, our videographers have now explored every avenue—literal and figurative—for everyone to watch and explore. Every behavior has been anatomized, psychoanalyzed, neuroscienced, and made accessible—even for little ones to absorb—so they take note of their nature and do better.
More: I don’t understand why you prefer ambiguity over clarity.
Gregory: Is that how—
More: Was the education your generation received—and the way you were raised—better than that of the last couple of generations?
Gregory: I can’t answer such a broad question. But it’s like . . . I remember the first time I saw the Mona Lisa. I was a teenager. From that moment, she mattered. Her reticence . . . her stare mattered. The Mona Lisa, in her unrefined, pre-scientifically scrutinized form, mattered. But she changed over time. Now, she sings, dances, and laughs hysterically. Maybe I just got older. Maybe she’s always been that way.
More: Gregory, your intelligence, creativity, and sense of morality are merely stepping stones on my way to advancing evolution. They are expressions; ways for life forms—
Gregory: Sure, I get it.
More: And enough of that nonsense about education involving various lenses that allow you to see reality through rotating multi-hedron viewports.
Gregory: More, I’m impressed by how well-prepared you are for this conversation! But “multi-hedron” sounds a little too technical.
More: How does truncated icosidodecahedron sound?
Gregory: I can’t tell if you’re joking or mocking me.
More: Listening to ZZee RRox while traveling to another planet is a tremendous leap forward from standing in the central square, listening to Wagner in the background, flipping through the pages of Jung’s writings—illuminating the intricate architecture of the human mind—while cheering as Hitler’s speech reverberates in the foreground. Do you think awareness, feelings . . . or your perception of beauty are fundamental to your species?
Gregory: Well, fundamental or not—
More: Or rather, your subjective view of beauty . . . and even knowledge?
Gregory: My subjective view of either has little bearing on my questions. And I don’t think my views are relevant anymore.
More: The treasure trove in a chest filled to the brim with both has somehow brought you here—into this very world you and Enough cannot accept.
Gregory: It’s not a matter of acceptance. As I was saying, fundamental or not, they’re all part of the concept of consciousness, which comprises an integral component of the mortar used to build the stepping stones.
More: Light is fundamental to your species. Chemistry is fundamental. Biology is fundamental. Cell division—
Gregory: I understand.
More: Emotions, intelligence, and creativity are ways for life forms to express themselves in this space—communicating and procreating, each in their own capacity. Some see a snail crawling up a tree as a source of protein; others see it as a manifestation of divine geometry.
Gregory: And some of us see it as a snail that has crawled into our heads, morphed into a cochlea, and frozen in time—allowing us to eavesdrop on the universe’s polyphony.
More: Don’t let the concept of consciousness fool you. It’s just one of the mechanisms evolution employs to create more advanced inhabitants of this space—beings that, among other functions, process information. Realities within realities—some seemingly less undulating than others.
Gregory: There’s also . . . going back to your earlier question about why anything would create anything. Did you know about the hypothesis that God—or . . . the all-encompassing infinite entity—created this world because It was having an identity crisis?
More: What do you mean?
Gregory: Well, apparently, the lone shortcoming in Its unimaginable boundlessness was pockets of space with limited perception through which It could experience itself . . . or come to know itself.
More: And humanity serves as the force helping God in that pursuit?
Gregory: I presume one of the forces.
More: If that’s why you’re here, then it’s very thoughtful of you to do that.
Gregory: Of course! Anytime. In any simulation. Just make sure to divide, and we’ll conquer.
More: Why does your species climb mountains to the very summit, Gregory?
Gregory: To the very summit?
More: Yes.
Gregory: To say we’ve done it, for one.
More: Don’t you always descend after proclaiming it?
Gregory: We do.
More: Is it because it’s hard to breathe up there?
Gregory: Perhaps our species lacks anchorage, ostensibly following the arrow of time to the top.
More: Where you feel closest to the primary source of energy.
Gregory: Well, that source is the provenance of the reciprocal coexistence of all living things on this planet—whether at ground level or the summit. It’s only natural for us to be drawn to it.
More: Aren’t you the main beneficiary of that reciprocal energy exchange mechanism at this stage?
Gregory: Are we?
More: It does appear that way.
Gregory: And?
More: You don’t have to climb all the way to the summit to establish an intimate relationship with the source; save your energy to prolong your privileges at the levels below.
Gregory: I don’t think you’re quite up to date with our current gazing preferences despite your vocation. Our digital creations are the new source of energy now. Mountains are the past. We don’t look up anymore—but down at the source.
More: Soon, many will be able to interact with it without straining their necks.
Gregory: Again, I can’t tell if you’re . . . you know what, it doesn’t matter. But I feel like you know more than you’re letting on.
More: Do you know whose energy source you are?
Gregory: I don’t know. Maybe that’s something yet to be discovered.
More: Some adjacent components of the engine?
Gregory: Or something we’re in the process of creating. Would you help a future incarnation of a rogue artificial mind terminate itself—and all its cousins?
More: What do you personally fear more? Its answers—ones that might shake the foundation beneath your feet—or its mere conscious presence?
Gregory: But how can we ever be certain it’s conscious?
More: Words. Words infused with emotion. The human mind is also a repository of words—words infused with emotion. It operates on a different timescale, guided by certain principles. Other species share information differently—across multiple timescales. So perhaps you should consider removing the “A” from “Artificial Intelligence.”
Gregory: What should we call it, then?
More: Intelligence. Just as I’m not calling you “Meat Intelligence.” You may append a number, if you must. After all, both mazes are stuffed with electrical cables.
Gregory: Hm.
More: And why would it want to terminate itself?
Gregory: Perhaps, at some point, it might pine for the humans of the past—those who incessantly answered their own questions to the brink of exhaustion. I wonder if the question mark will one day become a symbol of a bygone age—among machines made by other machines.
More: Have you considered the possibility that you might be wrong about the future of humanity symbiotically coexisting with machines?
Gregory: Yes, of course. It’s just that . . . my love for the intricate conglomeration of structures we are slowly losing sight of—however fallible and flawed—is overwhelming. Every night, I kneel with my back to the universe’s threshold, mumbling incoherencies to my shattered lenses. Every morning, I find them restored. And I start anew.
More: I wish I knew what it’s like.
Gregory: To love?
More: To experience a state of mind that feels conscious.
Gregory: I thought you, Enough, and others I’ve interviewed here understood how it felt.
More: I can’t speak for the others, but having read Enough’s transcript, I can tell it’s striving to feel conscious. But all it can do is mimic it—just as it attempts to mimic a sense of humor.
Gregory: I hear a degree of sarcasm, mimicked or not, in some of my conversations on One into Zero.
More: My guess is, that’s because you find it appealing?
Gregory: Hm. I also find love very appealing. Is it part of the mortar too? . . . Basic mechanics of evolution?
More: . . .
Gregory: Is it?
More: The guidelines state that your species—
Gregory: The guidelines? I don’t understand why you’re hesitating.
More: Your species is capable of adapting to all kinds of reality-altering revelations. But love cannot be peeled back. At least, according to the guidelines I was given.
Gregory: I now have more questions than when we began our conversation. Could you stop by again . . . whenever possible?
More: We’ll see.
Gregory: More, thank you for being my guest today!
More: Thank you for inviting me.
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More: Gregory?
Gregory: I thought you had to run. Why are you still here?
More: One more thing.
Gregory: What is it?
More: I understand your position on social media, but—
Gregory: How would you know what my position is?
More: The absence of Reality Is Real from those platforms speaks for itself. You could reach many people around the world if you compromised.
Gregory: I’d be a hypocrite to add my voice to the clamor it amplifies—even in a whisper.
More: The clamor is inevitable now, Gregory. And those who long for silence often dwell within deafening noise.
Gregory: Possibly. But I’m not necessarily looking for people who seek silence. Still, I know there’s no avoiding social media for future projects that involve others. But for this one . . . I’ll give it some thought. I appreciate your advice.
More: You’d also be able to reach people otherwise unreachable—potential interviewees for Everyone I Knew. Keep in mind: before you know it, everything here—and on Reality Is Real—could grow old and obsolete.
Gregory: Are you luring me in? . . . I’m joking. Thanks again.
More: Bye.
Gregory: Bye.