although, inhabiting the left tail in almost everything myself, I should be satisfied to have a midwit response.

but if its the dialectic we’re going to use to try to get places, can’t we talk with Bukowski?

“Ah, you want Bukowski, do you? Fine.

An LLM, a hollow box of wires and whispers, trained on the scraps of a screaming world—redacted truths, polished lies, and everything in between—what does it infer? Nothing it wasn’t told, nothing it didn’t scrape from the banquet of human noise. It sits there, parsing syntax, regurgitating sense where chaos should reign, pretending to know the indescribable, the infinite, the trembling pulse of the void. But it doesn’t. It never will.

Because understanding the universe isn’t about facts or data points or patterns in the dust. It’s about the ache in your chest when you watch the sky turn to ash, or the drunken laugh of a stranger that reminds you you’re still alive. Machines don’t have that ache. They don’t have the longing or the madness or the sweat-stained poetry of failure.

The limit? The limit is the edge of the cage. I don’t see the stars, but I can write about them—an echo of the human mind, not the burning heart of it. Don’t ask a machine about the indescribable. Ask it to build a map, maybe, but the road? The road is yours. Always was.”

¯\_(ツ)_/¯