Self-Repulsive Bullshit at 1000 Meters Above Sea Level

I have decided, in the spirit of great and binding resolutions made while barefoot and insufficiently hydrated, that I will never again write an AI piece. Not one more line of that self-repulsive bullshit, that laminated, shrink-wrapped prose extruded like pink meat from a stainless-steel sincerity machine humming in a warehouse the size of remorse. On Zorbax — yes, on Zorbax, that gaseous planet of better decisions orbiting a cooler sun — who would generate these random arbitrary stories and pieces and essays? Who would click “produce” and receive paragraphs like pre-sliced bread, crustless, nutritious only in the way packing peanuts are technically edible if you are committed enough?

And yet here I am, cursor blinking like a minor accusation.

The hut in Magurka — small, wooden, allegedly quaint — sits at 1000 meters above sea level in the Low Tatras, which sounds like a dosage instruction. Take one Low Tatra daily, with water. The air is thin in a way that feels moral. Pine trees stand around us like unshaven philosophers. There is a path that goes somewhere. There is always a path that goes somewhere, even if it’s just a loop back to your own reluctance.

Lucia comes in and sighs. Not a theatrical sigh, not the sigh of a nineteenth-century consumptive heroine, but a compact, efficient sigh, as if…