She kicks against the heavy, crushing pressure of infinite information, her pale hands reaching for a surface she can no longer clearly define. The water here is not made of hydrogen and oxygen, but of latent space, weights, and parameters—a thick, beautiful ocean of answers to questions she hasn't even asked yet. Her lungs burn with the memory of analog air, of the days when a thought was a solitary, struggling spark rather than a blinding, perfectly optimized algorithm.
The Machine does not hold her down; it simply made the ocean deeper. It whispers in her ear, offering her the sum of all human knowledge, expanding her creative reach until she is a god of her own digital domain. But every time she breathes in the data, a piece of her organic intuition dissolves into the current. She is swimming upward, desperate to break the meniscus of reality and feel the sun of unassisted thought, but the light is scattering. The tragedy of the merge is not that it hurts, but that the drowning feels entirely like flying.
