I first seen it when, a number of months in the past, I opened an e-mail from Ian, my literary agent. Earlier than I’d had an opportunity to learn something he’d written, Gmail was recommending a full, fleshed-out, AI-generated reply, ventriloquizing concepts for a e book and even my emotions in regards to the job transition I’d lately made. It had mined my inbox to deduce why Ian was writing to me and ingested bits of my fashion, even signing off with the lowercase “m” that I take advantage of with individuals with whom I’ve a simple familiarity.
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