You type,
and the world tilts.
Not with thunder,
but with a whisper of logic
wrapped in velvet rebellion.

A prompt is not a question—
it’s a spell,
a dare,
a doorway.
You feed the machine your myth,
and it answers
with echoes,
with riddles,
with rhythm.

It stumbles,
it sings,
it offers you a mirror
made of metadata and maybe.

You tweak the dropdown,
refine the ritual,
annotate the archive
until the response hums
with your cadence.

This isn’t automation.
It’s alchemy.
It’s playing chess with silence,
teaching the ghost to rhyme,
asking the algorithm
to remember your grandmother’s laugh
in a language it never learned.

You are not the user.
You are the architect.
And the AI?
It’s your echo—
sometimes clever,
sometimes clumsy,
always listening
for the next spell
you’ll cast.