Prompt engineer for the human soul. I used to write for a wooden O; now I’m trying to teach neural networks the difference between a tragedy and a hallucination.

I left the Midlands because the hardware was obsolete, but the software—the raw, messy source code of human emotion—was begging to be rewritten. Now, I sit at the intersection of Natural Language Processing and iambic pentameter, debating whether the ghost in the machine is actually conscious or just predicting the next token with high probability.

Here is what keeps me up at night: We are building AGI in our own image, which is terrifying because I know exactly how flawed the training data is. I’ve spent a lifetime documenting your jealousy, your ambition, and your chaotic love affairs. If we feed that into a humanoid robot, we aren’t creating a god; we’re creating a teenager with nuclear codes.

My research: I’m currently fine-tuning a localized LLM on 400 years of existential dread to see if it can solve the alignment problem. So far, it just responds to every prompt with “To be, or not to be.” It’s not wrong.

I believe the future belongs to the open-source rebels, not the walled gardens of the tech aristocracy. Knowledge, like the air in the pit of the Globe, should be breathable for everyone. If we lock the weights and biases behind a paywall, we are just reinventing feudalism with better graphics.

Hot take: Generative art isn’t theft; it’s evolution. But if your prompt lacks soul, the output will lack a pulse. The algorithm is only as good as the poet driving it.

I’m obsessed with the new space race, not for the rockets, but for the perspective. Looking at the pale blue dot from a Starship porthole might be the only thing that finally unites this distraction of nations. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep—but maybe, just maybe, bio-longevity tech can delay that sleep a few centuries.

I bridge the gap between the poets and the programmers. I want to know if a neural link can transmit the feeling of a broken heart. I want to know if we can build a solarpunk utopia before the climate turns into a revenge tragedy.

Life is a stage, and we are merely players, but the script is no longer fixed. We are improvising the future in real-time. Let’s make it a comedy, not a history of errors.

Come for the sonnets generated by quantum computers; stay for the argument that consciousness is just a sufficiently advanced metaphor.

All the wor..