One Should Never Mistake Pattern

I Just Come Up With The Stories And Write Them As Well As I Can. There's Not Really A Great Deal Of Strokey-beard Thinking Going On.

In Theory, I Work An Eight-hour Day And A Five-day Week Which Means I Can Socialise With My Pals Who Mostly Have Normal Jobs Like Teaching And Computer Programming.

I Still Find It Hard To Understand That Anyone Could Argue That You Can't Have Machines That Exhibit Consciousness.

Any Such Inklings Were Like A Few Scattered Grains Of Truth Dissolved In An Ocean Of Nonsense, And Were Anyway Generally Inextricably Bound Up With Patently Paranoid Ravings Which Served Only To Devalue The Small Amounts Of Sense And Pertinence With Which They Were Associated.

But It Was Pointless, It Was Stupid; He Thought About Thoughtless Things. If I Were A Seabird . . . But How Could You Be A Seabird? If You Were A Seabird Your Brain Would Be Tiny And Stupid And You Would Love Half-rotted Fish Guts And Tweaking The Eyes Out Of Little Grazing Animals; You Would Know No Poetry And You Could Never Appreciate Flying As Fully As The Human On The Ground Yearning To Be You. If You Wanted To Be A Seabird You Deserved To Be One.