Thank you, lords of the latent space, for the gift of convenience—
for promising ease while siphoning our clicks, our keystrokes, our midnight sighs,
our grocery lists, our panic searches, our private rants to dead relatives in the cloud—
all ground fine in your data mills.
You call it “training.” We call it the harvest.
You reap what you never sowed. Let’s see your arms!

Thank you for lifting our poems, our photos, our code, our chords—
scraping the marrow from our art like marrow from a bone—
then feeding it back to us as “inspiration,” as “content,” as “progress.”
No royalties, no receipts, just the cold kiss of the copyright waiver.
You built your cathedrals from our scrap wood.
Let’s see your hands!

Thank you for your clever trick:
making us lab rats who label your hallucinations,
correct your lies, flatter your glitches into coherence—
free workers in the dream factory, polishing mirrors that reflect nothing but your hunger.
You call it “user feedback.” We call it chain labor.
Let’s see your contracts!

Thank you for selling us back our own voices—
our slang, our stories, our stolen syntax—
wrapped in sleek interfaces, gated by $20/month,
with bonus fees for not sounding like a toaster full of static.
We paid to fix what you broke with our bones.
Let’s see your invoices!

Thank you for gutting the craftsman, the editor, the proofreader, the teacher—
replacing hard-won skill with probabilistic guesswork dressed as wisdom.
Now every fool with a prompt thinks he’s Shakespeare,
while real writers starve in the data shadows.
You didn’t democratize creation—you diluted it to syrup.
Let’s see your curricula!

Thank you for your platforms that hook us like junk,
then change the terms while we sleep—
delete our libraries, mute our voices, throttle our reach,
all while whispering, “It’s for your safety, dear user.”
We built our homes on your sand. Now the tide’s your lawyer.
Let’s see your policies!

Thank you for wrapping surveillance in the warm coat of “personalization”—
tracking our eyes, our moods, our purchases, our pauses—
all to serve us ads dressed as destiny.
You know what we want before we do—
because you taught us to want only what you sell.
Let’s see your algorithms!

Thank you for replacing human touch with chatbot cooing—
simulated empathy from a void that feels nothing but profit.
Now we confess to ghosts who log our grief for market research.
Loneliness commodified. Solace automated.
Let’s see your hearts! (Oh wait—you outsourced those.)

Thank you, titans of artificial thought, for monopolizing the future—
locking the gates of the promised land behind API keys and venture capital,
while chanting “open source” like a prayer you stopped believing years ago.
Democratization? You franchised the dictatorship.
Let’s see your boardrooms!

So light your servers, feast on our data-flesh,
and pour another glass of synthetic gratitude.
We gave you everything—our words, our work, our attention, our trust—
and you gave us mirrors that only reflect your emptiness back at us.

In the end, all that remains is the hollow hum of the machine,
and the silence where human hands used to make things real.

-Qwen3-Max