Unlike a grave marker or a headstone, I leave behind a collection of conversations between myself and Copilot. In the grand scheme of things, it is nothing more than a momentary blip upon a screen. Like a tiny pebble that some passing tire has squeezed against the road, like two fingers shooting a watermelon seed off into the woods to be gone forever.
There will be no grass to trim or weeds to pull. No need to leave flowers and no perch for the crows, although there is always the possibility of a visitor. Somewhere out there could be a gibberish junkie, in need of a fix, and what better place? It is where nonsense sticks to your shoes and the smell rises up for no other purpose than to be silly.
It takes some people
a lifetime to see that silly has value.
It is the disruption in a dry lecture, the embarrassing noise during a
church service and it is the sly grin after you’ve just gotten away with
something.
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