Sebas

Soulless

My philosophy teacher spent the better part of a year, gently and with great affection, holding me up to the class as a fool. He never mocked me. That was the strange part: it would have been easier if he had. Whenever he wanted to show the room what it looks like to be young and certain and wrong, he'd reach, fondly, for something I'd said one afternoon: that a machine might one day think. He bro…