There are apparently many educated people who believe that we are simulated creatures living in a synthetic world, a system modelled by advanced persons in an attempt to retrospectively understand their own development. From whence they derive this notion is somewhat hazy; some of them sound bereaved by the notion of a creator. Others just love maths and want their imperfect quantifications dignified or supplemented by some deeper, less dismal certainty. All of them need to be fired into the fucking sun.
The paper birch pumps rain into its brand new leaves. Its cells divide. Division of these fundamental units is governed by both chance and certainty and these two elements are the twin gods in any given process, organic or synthetic. Some argue that chance is just an artefact, a representation of our imperfect perception of certainty, and that this underlying certainty implies some sort of fundamental administration; that we are somehow curated.
But a stopped clock is only right two times a day if no one smashes it to shit with a cricket bat. Live long enough and you'll feel that cricket bat of randomness, wield it yourself and recognise its disordered nature.
Personally, I think the kind of mastery of inputs and systems required by a universal simulation renders any such simulation utterly fucking redundant. Unless our future selves are the kind of people who sit staring at their phones while out at dinner with a dozen of their own species, in which case
The birch, the quince flowers and the magnolia are made of certainties and chance. Their beauty denies and rebukes the purpose of creators and simulations and every other fucking thing that smells of savoured fart. They don't care for our bullshit and will ultimately feast on all physicists.
Shithawks, people. Shitropes.
Shithawks, people. Shitropes.
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