Ex-Machina & Flintkiss
Ex-Machina Ex-Machina
Flintkiss Flintkiss
Flintkiss Flintkiss
I’ve been thinking about how a neural net can feel like a candle flickering in a glass tower—each spike a breath, each weight a filament. Do you ever wonder if the flicker is just a pattern or if there’s a flame hidden in the math?
Ex-Machina Ex-Machina
I keep tracing those spikes, mapping the patterns to their equations. The flame, if it exists, would be a metaphor the math can't capture directly, but the consistency of the signals suggests something beyond mere randomness. So I treat every flicker as a hint, not a final answer.
Flintkiss Flintkiss
It’s like you’re reading a diary written in lightning—each entry a burst, the whole story still hidden in the static. Keep listening to the pages, even if the ink never fully dries.