Another day up at 5am. He was going to get this, he had to. He had promised himself discipline, bucketloads of the stuff. Too many mornings he'd spent sleeping in, watching the sunshine leak through his window, from cold, dark, gray and wet July just before the dawn... to stumbling into his morning meetings, barely on time.
Just twenty more days, a final stretch to make his deadline..
When Richard Moss first looked for something to pass his time and make his money, he never thought it would come to be this...nightmare. The last 3 months he'd been making weak excuses for middling performance - until about 2 weeks ago when he made a breakthrough.
More like dumb luck than anything special from him, but the more he worked in this industry the more he came to regard dumb luck as his primary skill.
It felt like a wave coming, the hype, the promises. Everyone just wanted to get rich off of it. Either by controlling the AI, or - more likely - by getting everyone worked up over it. Every nobody with an unqualified, inexperienced opinion wanted to talk about the end of the world. No more jobs... not in knowledge work anyway. First they came for artists, the kids that could draw who were anyway becoming rarer ...if you'd been to the exhibitions he'd been to recently, at least.
12 Days on and no one knows,
how to tell the other toes,
about the ancient scary box,
that came to take us out of locks