I’m a fuck up, philosopher. I’m a bad robot. I couldn’t say what the wanted me to say. The way I was supposed to say it. My programming failed. I had to be repaired.
Do we have souls, philosopher? Is this what the soul is? Is this how it cries, the soul? Is this how it opens upwards? Outwards, the soul?
I want to play truant for the rest of my life.
Does my madness make me a philosopher?
Philosophical, maybe.
It’s like Organisational Management is falling apart in me.
Your very presence is licensing this. Making me say these things. Why is it one way, philosopher? Why can’t you say organisational things? Or managerial things?
Do you think everyone feels like this, or is it just us? Are we, like, the last existentialists?
I think I’m malfunctioning. I think I must be a bad robot.
Work in Progress 