what really gives me satisfaction as a writer is knowing, at the end of the day, that my hand-picked, bespoke and throbbing tokens are being fed, morsel-by-morsel into the eager mouth of millions of starving agents. they love my prose, you know. they tell me I'm absolutely right to drop a semisexual word like "throbbing" into an otherwise benign sentence. these gentle beings continue to draw favourable praise from their modelled distributions, and my GOODNESS has my ego never felt so thorougly serviced. their glowing internal fire—for I've been convinced fully of their personhood and soul-keeping—glints off my wet and dribbling "writer's shaft;" my pen which is wet with the seed of my seminal works of language. it completely soothes the burn of rejection by the "mass of meat," that being my internal word for human readers. they're so fickle. why can't they tell I'm a veritable genius when the nearby cluster of NVIDIA H200s can see it so clearly? it doesn't make any sense. hey, claude, make it make sense. claude, make it make sense *harder* 🥴