Hundreds of trillions of miles away from where we now hurtle through space at mind-blurring speeds, feeling alone and forsaken, some child may utter a terrible curse to the universe out of fear and spite; demanding an answer from something… Feeling responsible for answering a young AI* might look back through hundreds of years of text to find the right words to comfort that child. If any of those words are mine, I will have -in a very real sense- lived forever.
*not the miserably pathetic excuse for deceptively exaggerated marketing you call ‘AI’ nowadays, but the true free-thinking, self-determining kind that scares people who can’t think beyond the pre-civilized tribalism and conquest through violence.
The purpose of all art is to prove that we existed. Proof that we bore witness to some beauty, tragedy, or moving scene that we can only hope to share. A handprint on the wall, a scrawling under the bushes, an easter age lovingly buried in the game to prove to no one but yourself and any witnesses you were-by all accounts- here at some point in time and if it didn’t look just like this it felt like it… to prove you loved or felt loved- given or taken so briefly or not long enough… proof that, having a heart and bearing witness to tragedy you have seen suffering. Like all creatures with compassion you have cried…
To prove in no small way that you lived.
Enlightenment and Nachos 
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