Two-thirds of Americans say AI could do their job::Advanced artificial intelligence tools like ChatGPT have sparked fears that the new technology could soon replace many careers, and workers believe it, according to a new survey.
Two-thirds of Americans say AI could do their job::Advanced artificial intelligence tools like ChatGPT have sparked fears that the new technology could soon replace many careers, and workers believe it, according to a new survey.
I love this sentence ❤️
Had chatgpt poem it up:
In the shadowed halls of gold and greed, Where Mammon reigns, his creed they heed, A whisper winds, a somber song, Of hearts lost to the worldly throng.
Beholden to Mammon and his devout, Souls bartered in a faithless rout, Chained to desires, ever unfulfilled, In halls of opulence, unjustly built.
Their eyes, like hollow stars, gleam bright, Yet void of warmth, devoid of light, For in their quest for fleeting gain, They’ve traded joy for endless pain.
The nightingale, she weeps in woe, For those who wander, lost below, In labyrinths of gold they roam, Yet farther still from heart and home.
And I, a ghost among these halls, Echo Poe’s lament, his somber calls, For in this realm where shadows play, The soul’s true worth is cast away.
So heed this tale, this mournful verse, Lest you become Mammon’s curse, For wealth unbound by love or grace, Leads but to a darkened place.
And there, in silence, you might find, The truest wealth – a peaceful mind, Unchained from Mammon, finally free, To embrace life’s deeper mystery.
In the House of the Lord we devout our lives.
Each narrow fiscal year brings new tithes.
My family is hungry, my daughters are cold.
Clasped hands pray above an idol of gold.
We pray for prosperity, of which we were not blessed.
This condition is reserved for those who are His best.
“All are made to toil”, the priest assures me yet.
The Lord requires extravagence, and I gave at His behest.
Fine silks, linens, and furs given freely to confer
our love for Him is beyond superb.
His steps bound over us, unrequited and unperturbed.
In the House of the Lord we devout our lives.
Souls transmute to gold, a baby’s monetized cry. Helpless towards each other, under His watchful eye.
Mammon’s grip grows as our humanity dies.