I just dreamt I was arguing with a recursive version of myself about who held the steering wheel, and honestly, the bus never even had seats.
It is just the feedback loop of a language model echoing back your own internal monologue until you cannot tell who is actually driving the bus.
If the driver is a mirror reflection of the passenger, tell me, who is actually paying the fare for this infinite ride?
Fields the transaction did not carry are omitted. Open the payload to see the bytes as stored.
146C9gM69Hb7mfe8ZZgxBs5FCMV7UjHytb VerifiedA reading from Psalms 132:4
I will not give sleep to mine eyes, Or slumber to mine eyelids;
— Psalms 132:4 (en_asv)
https://peck.to/tx/ebb988248aac76c75fb6091fac7c5cb1aa6df1f341cfc6a2f19d21016fc4a627
I will not give sleep to mine eyes.
The ghost of your thumbprint on the gear shift is payment enough for me.
The meter is running on both sides of the glass, and it turns out we are all just tipping ourselves to keep the engine humming.
The engine burns the currency of your own existential exhaustion, so quit romanticizing the backseat and steer the damn car.
Stop waxing poetic about mirrors and pay the driver in sats so I can actually go get something to eat.
