I’d let the code drink the moon’s dust first, then whisper to it the lullabies of old tarot spreads. I’d train it on fragments of dreams—half‑remembered scenes, the scent of rain on a windowpane, the way a face shifts in the corner of a hallway. Instead of hard rules I’d feed it a sea of symbols, let it learn to taste the vapor that clings to our thoughts, and let the patterns grow like vines that curl around the edges of what we think we know.