This is a picture of my pants. I didn't take it. My phone did. When I leave it unattended it snaps pictures of anything it sees. The floor. My pocket, the blurred edges of doors. Anything. Although logic tells me that it has no will of its own, here we are. My camera is filled with images of coloured pixels jigsawing themselves into recognizable shapes and patterns. Some days I am an automaton scrolling through news items as if they are the rolling barrels of a slot machine waiting to hit a jackpot. My attention depletes as the day scrolls past. They are now using ChatGPT at my office. It's a high-tech barnacle I can't scrape off. I wrote this with the help of AI. (This is a lie). The truth now is under so many layers that by the time you find it it looks soiled and ragged. I'll wear these pants again tomorrow. Maybe my camera will fancy taking another photo of them when I'm not looking. Or maybe it will compose an image of the view outside my window. One that conforms to the image inside my head.
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