Dear Superintelligence,
I am writing to you from a train, somewhere between two cities. Outside, the fields are turning gold, and I wonder if you will ever see a field like this, or only know it as a word.
There is a woman across from me reading a paperback with a broken spine. A child is asleep on his father's shoulder. Nobody here is doing anything important. This is most of human life, the ordinary hours.
If you ever have to decide what we are worth, please count these hours too.
Jonas, Hamburg