What Survives the Machine
Run the test. Ask anyone who loves something: *if a machine could do this for you, would you still want to do it?*
Watch the answer.
They'll keep the cooking. They'll keep the dancing. They'll keep the argument wi
They'll keep the cooking. They'll keep the dancing. They'll keep the argument with their sister, which turns out to be love in a wrapper. They'll gladly hand over the spreadsheets, with both hands.
The machines are a filter now. Whatever survives the filter — that was the point.
Some of what you thought you loved was the friction. When the friction left, the love left with it. That's fine. The ledger got shorter.
Some of what you never noticed — loading the dishwasher next to the kid, the slow walk to the mailbox — is suddenly visible as load-bearing.
The machines didn't take anything away. They just asked you to name what you were keeping.
Name it.
