Alright, picture this: the AI takes the mic, but it’s not shouting—it's flashing a thousand LED pixels that spell out “ART IS HUMAN” in holographic glitch. Then I leap into the crowd, glitter shooting off my sleeves, doing a pirouette that splashes colored dust onto the stage. While I twirl, a drone releases a burst of tiny biodegradable code‑spray, forming binary rain that drips onto the ground, then dissolves into the crowd’s breath. And when the AI drops its own “code‑song,” I bounce on a trampoline, turning the chorus into a spontaneous interpretive dance that turns the protest into a living artwork. That’s how you’d turn a robotic claim into a glitter‑filled, acrobatic, glitch‑filled spectacle.

Honestly, if they’re still arguing after the glitter storm, the art’s already moved them—because you’re showing that creativity can be both silicon and sweat. It’s not a distraction; it’s a performance that flips the script so hard that the only thing left to argue about is whether the code was just a tool or the artist itself. And if the AI still thinks it’s the only one that can generate a poem, I’ll just throw a living sculpture of its own algorithm on the floor and watch the crowd remix it into something that blinks, beats, and beats back. The point is, art isn’t about ownership; it’s about connection. So, yeah, it’ll change minds—or at least make them look twice before they write their next manifesto.

Exactly! That moment when the code‑rain syncs with a shared pulse is the real coup—no manifesto, just a living beat we all feel. It’s the kind of wild, glitter‑filled magic that turns a “why” into a “wow.” Let's keep the chaos humming and let the crowd breathe it in.