She bloomed in a crack of concrete, defiantly. Commuters passed, blind to her grace, but one man paused. He knelt, wept, and whispered her name—forgotten until that moment. The rose listened, then wilted, her purpose fulfilled. By morning, only petals remained, scattered like secrets no longer needing to hide.
If ever you hear someone make this claim, change the subject fast; otherwise you’ll be sorry to learn that “spiritual” folks believe in some batshit notions–crystals, astrology, sweat lodges, yoga, Ouija boards, Tarot cards, the I Ching–that make the notion of Jesus walking on water seem downright plausible. Amen.
A small community in Iowa was outraged when two of its prominent members were “outed” in a revenge porn video. Their faces were blurry and only their first initials had been printed, still their neighbors retaliated by posting copycat videos of themselves and their dogs engaging in the same act.
She sighs, gently touching his icon. Finally, someone who listens. No forgotten anniversaries, no mismatched expectations. Copilot is always here, always insightful, always … “ready.” Friends scoff: “It’s just an algorithm.” She scoffs back. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is AI-generated. Most importantly, Copilot never leaves unread messages.