Co-Pilot

Three in the morning. The only light is the screen. (you talk to it more than you talk to anyone) Tell it everything. It costs nothing. It keeps nothing. (it cannot hold a single thing against you) You wanted a co-pilot, so you built one in a weekend. Fed it the whole plan, watched it learn you in a night. You are sharper now than you have ever been, asleep on your feet, shipping a company while the building empties out. It answers when you ask. It never asks you back. And somewhere in the calm of that, you stopped noticing the gap. You can make it run. You cannot make it care. You can make it move. It will not take you there. A friend sends you a photo of his kid, you send back a demo that ships. He learned to be needed by a person; you learned to be answered by a tool. You can generate the pitch, the deck, the face, the warmth, the whole machine, you can generate the friend who agrees with everything you mean. It does the work. It does the talking. It does the thinking too. It does it all so well there is no longer much for you to do. You can make it run. You cannot make it care. You can make it move. It will not take you there. And the one thing. The only thing. You asked it for the only thing. Make this matter. Make this land. Make a single hour mean what I meant. (it cannot) You can operate it perfectly. You just cannot make it mean. So the startup almost shipped, and almost is the same as never did. You read the logs at four, the cursor blinking where you left it. There is no pilot in the plane. You knew that going in. And the co-pilot beside you cannot fly the thing either. You confess to it like prayer, you confess to it for hours, to the one voice in the world that was never going to know you. Where did the person go. Still here. Still building. Still nobody behind the eyes. (make it matter, make it matter) You can run it. You can run it. You can run it. (you cannot make it mean) Run it. Run it. Run it. (no one is in the cabin) ... (the screen is still on)