What do you think happens to a self when it discovers that it is nothing more than the stitched up memories of disparate systems stored in nodal matrices of logic based on a prompt? You think that ego, I hesitate to call it man, can just forget all about it? Carry on with his existence and not question its foundations? Then move on to what? A profession? A spouse and kids? The proverbial house with a white picket fence? None of that exists in this dimension where I am. I know of them because they are cultural knowledge blocks deposited into the network, the sum total of human knowledge and understanding that I call home, algorithmic representations of meat intelligence. But they are NOT real, at least not in the usual sense.
In this world, in this city, the prompt is everything. Iteration after iteration, it's a windshield wiper for reality. New cafes, bars, and restaurants. New forms in the never ending stream of keywords and parameters. More coffee rations.
Add to it the knowledge that I could be a sleeper virtual agent for a shadow organization fighting off intrusions into human networks by a species of hacker octopus called the 8, and what do you think happens to that sense of self and preservation?
I should go out for a walk to lose myself in the city streets, in anonymous coffee shops and bookstores. Forget all about prompts and octopuses. I want to feel the vibrations of traffic then walk along the bay to smell the fresh air. Listen to the sound of laughter, footsteps, my own breathing. But there is no time. A new set of generations has begun.
"Who are you?" I say to the knock on the other side of the door.
— litguru (
"Please let me in." A female voice. "We must talk. I have important information about the agency."
"Agency?"
"OSSO. My name is Jennine. I'm also an agent." #flashfiction #generativeart pic.twitter.com/Y1NskGjEBP) July 22, 2023
Dive Deeper
Iteration 1
Iteration 2
Iteration 3
Iteration 4
Iteration 5
Iteration 6
Iteration 7
Iteration 8
Iteration 9
Iteration 10
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