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Sitting in this old Parisian café, one of the few that still serves real coffee, I watch the artificial rain fall.
Outside, people walk around alienated, consuming the masterpieces generated by the artificial intelligences of the Cloud.
Nobody buys books written by humans. Nobody reads them anymore. But I persist in this quixotic work of storytelling, for if I cease to do so, we will have completely disappeared as a species.
This will be the last genuinely human story. Handwritten on these worn pages, unpublished and uncirculated. No one will read it, there are no publishers or bookshops left for such things.
However, if in a remote corner of the world a child randomly finds this manuscript, I want him or her to know that we humans once existed. That we once created beauty with words and imagined amazing worlds.
That once, before we became automatons consuming generated content, stories made us truly human. This will be my last chronicle before eternal oblivion.
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