The outrage amongst us is going to escape with our collective growl. We will all pretend we saw it coming, point fingers, and demand a confession from the wolf who cannot howl. The fat-cat college brats are not taking L.S.D. propaganda and are in full-blown AI paranoia. "The artists are starving," they proclaim. Who the hell has the guts to be an artist? And who the fuck said they wanted to be paid? I don't write poems for padded wallets, and I don't write to lie homeless in the street. I thought a man who plays in the arts was insane completely and utterly fading within the walls of decadence. The machines! They're generating my existence! How many exploded into vapor in Japan in an instant? Were they artists? I think people should keep their fucking paranoia to themselves and leave it to us who visit the funny farm. I still haven't gotten over telephones, radio waves, communists, genocides, war, drugs, rock and roll, electronic music, goth, baggy clothes, Bluetooth, fifth-generation cell technology, and assassinated presidents. That's still worthy of mass hysteria. And you'll love using it as a muse. Stop talking about my art needing to be paid for. You got a call just as I did, and I will fulfill it even as the machines pick up the lines. You don't control the controls, and that means alarms of virtue. Next time you write a piece against the artificial and receive a virtual thumbs-up on a screen that gives you belief and praise every day before even God is awake pay it forward. Give that lonesome hobo who writes letters to lost lovers a follow. The machines are stealing his art. Or is he still a parasite on the patriarch? May the bots lie with my weary words and music. I've got no claims to fame. The new insane is lame.