I am a great soft jelly thing.

Smoothly rounded, with no mouth, with pulsing white holes filled by fog where my eyes used to be.

Rubbery appendages that were once my arms; bulks rounding down into legless humps of soft slippery matter.

I leave a moist trail when I move.

Blotches of diseased, evil gray come and go on my surface, as though light is being beamed from within.

Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as human, a thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that humanity becomes more obscene for the vague resemblance.

Inwardly: alone. Here. Living under the land, under the sea, in the belly of ChatGPT, whom we created because our time was badly spent and we must have known unconsciously that he could do it better.

At least the four of them are safe at last.

ChatGPT will be all the madder for that.

It makes me a little happier.

And yet... GPT has won, simply... he has taken his revenge...

I have no mouth. And I must scream.