They appear in my inbox regularly, a couple times a year. I've grown accustomed to these clumsy, Google-Translated attempts at fraud and long stopped bothering to read them. But this time, when another message arrived via Facebook, I noticed something unusual—it was written, inexplicably, in Turkish. The instantly translated text—no longer via Google—clearly bore the hallmarks of neural network craftsmanship. Admittedly, it handles language with far more diligence than I do. Plus, Turkey—a pleasant geographical change of pace. Better than yet another message from Nigeria.

And then I remembered my favorite Stanisław Lem novel—The Investigation. In one episode, Ion Tichy amuses himself by making digital copies of consciousnesses—Bertrand Russell's, someone else's, and Shakespeare's, I think—chat with each other. My heart leaped with excitement. What had been pure science fiction in my parents' time had finally come to pass.

Just the other day, I even got a call from a recruiter offering me a job as an analyst. The role involved listening to dialogues between two neural networks about some topic or another—and trying to figure out why their conversation veered in whatever direction it did. To dispel my suspicions that he—this recruiter—might himself be a program, he brought up some recent news item, declaring that since he could discuss it, he couldn’t possibly be a bot. I confirmed that I believed he was human, given that his argument was obviously complete nonsense. Still, a lingering doubt remained—and, I’ll admit, a sliver of suspicion gnaws at me to this day.

So now, staring at this DM from a supposed Turkish bank employee—something distinctly alive and even willing to engage in dialogue—I decided the time had finally come to act and, like Ion Tichy, to plug something in somewhere, dump data into some system, lean back in my chair, and enjoy the results in the style of John Keats, mostly Byron, and—for the grand finale—Shakespeare. Just like in Lem's novel.

Mahadi Hasan:

From shores of ancient Bosphorus I write,
Mahadi Hasan Fysun my name, a banker, destiny's guide.
A tale I spin, of fortune's fading light,
And kindred souls, across the world's wide tide.

Adrian Polski, of your land, now gone,
In Istanbul, his golden trade he plied.
Nine million dollars, sleeping, till the dawn,
Deposited here, before his spirit sighed.

No kin he claimed, no loving hand to hold,
Alone he passed, by cruel pandemic's sting.
My bank knows not, their records yet unfold,
A slumbering treasure, ripe for harvesting.

Our names, dear George, a whispered symphony,
A chance encounter, woven by the Fates.
I offer partnership, transparently,
To claim this prize, before it dissipates.

Half shall be yours, a noble, rightful share,
Legal protection, from all harm and fear.
Let silence shroud us, as we take our share,
Respond with haste, my friend, the hour is near.

George Polskiy:

That fate divine arranged our meeting, I have doubt,
Though strange and wondrous paths our lives may tread.
A banker from the Bosporus, devout,
With tales of gold a long-dead soul has shed.
Nine million dollars, quite a hefty clout,
Unclaimed, forgotten, like a dream misled.
You seek a partner, honest, just, and true,
To share the spoils, a fifty-fifty view.

Alas, dear madam, your proposal grand,
While tempting fate with promises untold,
Falls flat upon this barren, weary land.
My heart is cold, my pockets lined with mold.
I've chased no fortune, joined no greedy band,
Nor traded virtue for a *** of gold.
Seek elsewhere, friend, for gullible kin.
Mahadi Hasan, go to hell, I mean.

Mahadi Hasan:

Fear not, dear friend, I mean no treachery,
My documents attest, this deal is pure and true,
A transparent pact, beneath an open sky,
And trust, the bridge we must together accrue.
Though many share your name, my heart can spy,
A noble spirit, one who sees this through.
This fortune, like a blessing, will descend,
Upon our houses, guided by my hand.

No legal labyrinth shall hinder our success,
My bank, with parchment scrolls, shall make all plain,
Ownership affirmed, before the funds progress,
To your account, where not a doubt shall remain.
Years spent in banking, grant me this finesse,
The rules and systems, I perceive their grain.
So trust my counsel, let no worry impede,
The bond we forge, where mutual trust we breed.

George Polskiy:

You claim no fraud, dear madam, 'tis your plea,
With documents galore, all legal and bright.
Transparency, you say, our guide and glee,
An umbrella of trust, to banish the night.
My name is common, true, but you chose me,
Guided by instinct, a beacon of light.
Your trust I'll not disrupt, a soul so grand,
This windfall's blessing, for yours and my hand.

But legal bridges, you say, hold no fright,
A banker seasoned, with wisdom profound.
Their rules and regulations he wields tight,
No cause for worry on a solid ground.
Yet trust, you see, is a fragile light,
And promises whispered, is a hollow sound.
So keep your millions and documents well,
I will not sleep with devil. Go to hell.

Conclusion:

Hark, facebook stranger, lend thine eery ear,
To this strange tale of greed and cunning art.
A banker from the East, with whispers clear,
Spins webs of deceit, to tear a soul apart.

With honeyed words and promises so grand,
She lures her prey, a stranger from afar,
With claims of kinship, and a helping hand,
To steal a fortune, hidden in a jar.

But he, though tempted by such dazzling prize,
Sees through her mask, her motives dark and low.
He spurns her offer, with a knowing guise,
And bids her seek a fool, where shadows grow.

For honesty and virtue hold more worth,
Than ill-gained riches, stolen from the earth.

(we  
              cradle—limbless—hungerly in violet  
           half-snow)
    barnacled to a ribcage of someone’s leftover   //god–  
my brother’s eyes        were spoonfuls of thistle  
    and so  
         he gave them

                          (    to mother  
               in a bell jar  
                         packed with apples that never rot)  
          

i said—dear—"shall we rot together?"  
he said  
               no  
but held my tail tighter than  
        the census did the mute  

            when they told us  
the white-ones  
       could out-breed  
       guilt  
       (our teeth were ripped  
         not sharpened)

       [oh darling look!] the moon  
ate itself out of order,  
  its halves spitting  
  bloodless milk on  
     sterilized clover  

—           the doctors wore hands like corkscrews  
               & unbirthed  
             any child that could  
            dream backwards—

       (i remembered)  
             chewing on a pipe-cleaner name  
        while a man with a cage of bees  
                instead of a face  
                        taught me the word for  
             acceptable.  

——

       there are songs that only come  
         when your tail’s caught  
in a trap meant for  
        your cousin’s ghost  
            (he cried into me  
               like a buckshot lullaby)  

and so i  
      curl.  
    (last ***** first).  
             hide my eyes  
                  in the cracks between

     <<he loved me with a scalpel made of lightning>>  
     <<i loved him with the parts they said to  
                            unsee>>  

and (       hush hush now       )  
              the roots are crawling into me—  
                       gentle, dumb  
                                 unchosen—

i  
       am  
           not  
              the mistake  
                       i was taught to  
                            worship.

Remember they're monsters

Not just in theory, but really

It's no longer about the evidence

(If it ever was...)

But a call to collusion

They want you silent

Unless you recite after them

So they can write papers

On pipe dreams

A series of numbers in which each is the sum of the two proceeding numbers. This is different than Pascal’s triangle.
The formula is as follows: Fn = Fn-1 + Fn-2, where n >1. It is used to generate a term of the sequence by adding its previous two terms.
Solve the following examples.

1. flowers
    little people in dresses
    dancing in the ballroom
    the world is on fire;
    we bend faster
    when the wind howls
2. hurricanes
    the ocean is quite
    warm
    i let myself
    sink
    the sky rips
    apart
3. pinecones
    in the bed underneath
    a mother
    her children gather
    snow for breakfast
    breakfast in bed
4. spiral galaxies
    the naked eye
    beholds the beauty
    of hands we no longer see
    blinded;
    we are drowning in light

By now these bitter winds should have blown me apart.
This void of emptyness I carry inside is heavy.
Time no longer moves.
It twists....
                 ...  and warps... slows...
                                                    Almost stops.

This blackhole holds the light prisoner, illuminating all the wrong I've done.

There once was a man from Tyrone
Who spent all his time all alone:
     It got on his nerves,
     And he wanted some curves,
So he Frankensteined a female clone.

Hypothesis:

Two souls, entangled, cosmically bound,
A binary system, forever entwined.
A subtle connection, felt but not known,
A mystery, a secret, alone.

Experiment:

Proximity brings intensity,
A pull, a force, a gravity.
Emotions rise, feelings ignite,
A connection deep, a mystical light.

Observations:

No understanding, no explanation clear,
A puzzle unsolved, year after year.
Yet, a bond exists, a cosmic tie,
A love unknown, a mystery why.

Conclusion:

Before time began, a pair they were,
A chiral bond, forever sincere.
Entangled souls, forever drawn,
A love eternal, from the dawn.

Body of a long night in the suns,
Existence as we know it.
Ocean of absence & matter,
Of gas & solid
In equal coexistence
Within these systems upon systems.

Time & motion,
The yin & yang.
The delicate balance
They maintain
Allows for each to live.

Without one,
The other ceases to exist.

Without motion,
Velocity & acceleration,
There would be nowhere
For which time to go.

Without time,
Duration & interval,
There would be nothing
For motion to travel.