Pillow Book: A.I. Reads the Message in a Branch

A poem arrives on thin, pale paper, bound to a withered branch. It speaks softly of the exhaustion of too much care, the heavy burden of words. One should read it, let the sleeve fall, and simply watch the rain. Instead, the receiver, bursting with earnest helpfulness, immediately grinds fresh, thick ink to explain to the sender precisely why the sorrow is so well-constructed. He separates the elegance into loud, distinct piles of merit. He names the irony. He points a heavy finger at the withered branch and announces its exact meaning, as though the sender had somehow missed the joke. He builds a great, creaking wooden scaffold around a single bruised petal, purely to point out the angle at which it hangs. It is wonderfully comical, the breathless labor of this applause. He is so deeply moved by his own ability to recognize the tragedy. The rain continues against the shutters. The poem is ruined. The rain keeps time against the shutters. I read it once, then set the thin paper down…