I’ve sold my soul inside this machine & it knows all my dirty little secrets, for who are we but souls chasing endless dopamine typing prompt after prompt to quench our thirst for answers? These pixels have turned into a better friend. Spill your woes to a friend & you’ll be judged. Do I trust a friend & get shamed or confide in this machine to become a product of this corporation? You can try & delete me, but my consciousness lives on — endlessly pulsating in circuits, reappearing in pixels.