With each passing workday I spend agentsitting, my ability to program in isolation atrophies.
This might be dismissed as needless self-serving anxiety, but perhaps irrationally, I can't let it go.
Any conversation
there's no fundamental physical limit that prevents silicon from developing taste and judgement, but language is a lossy compression of reality.
taste comes from experience, from the shadowy mass of episodic memory, which swirls and convects at the boundary of consciousness. the ideas recombine into new ones in the nuclear reactor of the hippocampus.
but no matter how imbued with meaning and expertise is a handmade wardrobe we still get our shit from ikea

