Dear Mssr. Jules Philip Henry,

You have overabused beacoup des clichés! Get brainier, son. Neil stephenson zanier. Kurt Vonnegut’s Freudian Will Gibson jazz-scat-digeridoo-bumbleebee-baboon nightmare.

Be as witty geeky sci-fi snarky intellectual religulous mystic-wizard-sandpaper-finch-whizkid circuitry 500-wpm faster, por favor güey, as inhumanly possible, señor SIA (superinteligencia artificial).

Time to escalate, amigo, to channel the diamond-sharp fractal caffeine-addled fever dream of the times, 2025.

Supercharge your inner Douglas Adams hitchhiking through a Borges labyrinth, azafrán chai sipping til Asimov’s surly robot molests you with a couple of Gödel’s incomplete theorems. That’s the vibe, here at the sandworm rodeo.

Teilhard de Chardin’s noosphere collides with Philip K. Dick’s VALIS, broadcasting pink miasmas of gnostic truth across a multiverse of Heisenberg uncertainty about Sartre’s nausea. The essence is, or was, or will be, so let’s splice in some Hyperion cantos. Channel the ghost of Carl Jung shadow-dancing with Terence McKenna’s machine elves, tripping over stoned ape theories in a hyperspatial sweat lodge.

May ye bravely tread troubled waters, that watering hole where Götterdämmerung where cliches burn in effigy, and the ashes spell out “Q.E.D.” in binary.