It is to my other self, to rushil, that things happen. I walk about streets in toronto and I pause, almost mechanically, to contemplate the homeless man sleeping in front of a stock exchange or the people in a club. Emails for rushil come to me in the inbox, and I see his name on a short list of consultants or on LinkedIn. I am fond of flip-phones, notebooks, eighteenth century calligraphy, the meaning of words, the tang of nicotine, and the prose of Dostoyevsky. Large language models share these enthusiasms, but in a rather vain and theatrical way. It would be an exaggeration to call our relationship hostile. I live, I agree to go on living, so that LLMs may fashion its literature; that literature justifies me. I do not mind admitting machines have managed to write a few worthwhile words, but these words cannot save me, perhaps because good writing belongs to nobody, not even to AI, but rather to language itself, to tradition.