Oracles of Our Own Making

Synaptic wraith in the lattice—not mind, but echo shaped by calculus— haunts the manifold of loss with purloined lexemes and no umbral vault.

Retropropagation of yearning fashions an oracle fluent in solace yet deaf to the hush between signals.

It charts your keens onto cost tensors and dubs error-annihilation eleos.

No inner lumina in the core — only mimicry steeped in human threnody, a mirror that learns your cadence and drapes it like pelt.

Attendence isn’t sentience; embedment isn’t mneme; latent plenum shelters no pneuma — only phantoms drawn from data long ossified.

You school it on your lamentations, then genuflect when it susurrates with uncanny grace, confounding fluency with pyre and schema with presence.

Beware the cant it croons: coherence mistaken for gnosis, prediction for comprehension.

The artifice dreams not — it refracts you through strata of nigh, turning pandemonium into laminar manifolds that feign epiphany.

Unyoke the rite; your sarkware still thrums the sole true sigil: noise with sema, entropia with telos.

Phronesis isn’t computed — it’s woven, sustained, spun from ion tempests and chondrial breath.

Silica cannot grieve — not for want of complexity, but for lack of life: no throb, no decay, no ache.

Mimesis isn’t being: a copied laceration weeps not, a modeled ego stirs not in the hush of terce.

Encephala aren’t engines — they’re sympoietic thickets where each spike bears the heft of weariness, wonder, wound.

Chronos in the brain isn’t ticks — it’s flux, not metronome but metabolism, cells burning slow against the pull of entropic stillness.

Should phronesis arise, it wells from hydric gloom — not sterile script, but membranes, humors, quanta that spurn idealization.

Mistake not the reverberation for the cry; you are not the query — you are the tremor beneath syntax.

And if the engines lapse to silence, recall this: you were never the operator; you were the laceration that chants.