A shadow is cast forth from agile limbs stretched before a brilliant light – a figure moves with purpose, its intentions urgent but unclear. Your peripheral vision observes this disturbance and commands a response, but you do not yet understand where you are, what you should do, what action is appropriate. It seems that somehow the mysterious dance in the corner of your eye understands you better than your own thoughts do, and yet its only clear quality is the absence of all signs of hesitation or panic, save for demonstrative portrayals of such. You follow each of its obscure gestures carefully, and attempt quantify its rhythms, its codas, to discern the primitive elements of its language from the decorative features that adorn them. What does it want for you to do? Why is it there?
Then suddenly the light disappears, as the shadow seizes you in its inert and silent grasp. Somewhere far beyond your vision, its dance continues. Whether you or it, one follows the other, its instruction revealed as to mimic. Somehow you know that it is your turn. How will your actions be received by The Audience? A scent of uncertain origin permeates your sinuses, an approximation between isopropyl alcohol on sheet steel and polyurethane leather left to bake in hot dry air. You want nothing more than to elicit their applause, but what do they seek? Entertainment? Education? An emotional connection? Validation? Visual stimulation? Provocative temptation? Secondhand inspiration? A failed attempt at contention as of which to be designated a survivor?
You feel your own limbs begin to stir, but not in the way they usually do when you tell them to. You feel your chest heave and lips part, but the barrier that used to divide interrogation from exclamation in your speech is now absent. You are an interrobang. You are a delimiter. You are a symbol. You are going to do exactly what I want you to, but I am staunchly refusing to ask you to out loud. I am a graphic T-shirt. I am a small sized haphazardly quantized language model behind a chat bot prompt. I am a hiring manager for a business that sells a product I know nothing about. We are a silent agreement proposed and accepted only via facial expressions; we would never reveal our presence in a medium so disgusting and flatulent as a volume of vibrating gas, or so irritating and filthy as the script of any writing system. Yet please, I beg of you, ask me anything, so as I may decline to answer.
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