Matigo dot See, eh?

A lot can happen in a year. Just 365 days ago, my car was being assembled in Osaka. Next month marks the one-year anniversary of picking it up, and by then, it will have clocked over 32,000 kilometers. I originally bought the car to explore more of the country with my dog, Ayumi, who isn’t a fan of public transit. What began as a fun way to travel has since evolved into something more—a meditative tool I didn’t know I needed.

Ayumi and I still travel when the weather is kind to her, and the car is still fun to drive, but over time, its role has shifted. It’s no longer just a mode of transportation; it’s become my way to disconnect and reflect.

Six days a week, just after sunset, I get behind the wheel and set off on what I call “the lap”—a 53-kilometer circular route that takes me through a short mountain pass, across expansive farm roads, along busy highways, and through villages nestled in the hills. Thousands of cars pass me by, and I remain largely unnoticed, which suits me just fine. Most drivers are in a hurry, focused on getting somewhere, unaware of the world moving around them.

But I notice. I watch the cars that pass by, searching for something distinctive in a sea of identical Toyotas, Nissans, and Teslas. I glance at the people inside, many with one hand on the wheel and the other on their phones. Screens glow inside their vehicles, flashing ads that urge them to move faster, to do more.

They’re rushing to arrive by a certain time; I have no destination and plenty of time to get there.
They’re surrounded by screens; I have none unless I need navigation.
They drive with the windows up, air conditioning on; I’ve got the top down, wind in my hair—at least when the temperature is bearable.

These 90-minute laps offer me isolation, a break from the noise of the world, and a space to reflect. As I drive, I consider the differences between me and the people speeding past, but also the similarities. Most of us are chasing the same things: a safe place to sleep, a full stomach, companionship, and purpose. It's that last one, purpose, that I’ve spent countless hours contemplating, because it feels absent from my life.

What should I be doing? Is it too much to ask for a purpose that feels both moral and productive? Am I even asking the right questions?

Some might argue that I don’t need to drive 53 kilometers, burning fuel and adding to road congestion, to ponder these questions. But that misses the point. The drive forces me to be present, to set aside distractions. On the road, anything can happen—pedestrians and bicycles appear suddenly, cars run red lights, change lanes without warning. In this state of heightened awareness, I find clarity. Odd as it may seem, it’s in this environment that I can most clearly think through the difficult questions of life.

Over the past few years a number of people have asked me about artificially intelligent systems and how close they are to eradicating all of our jobs and creative efforts. My general response has been along the lines of "If you're really good at something, you will always have a job or an audience". A perfect example of this would be the handful of shoe repair shops that continue to exist despite the relative disposability of our footwear. As shoes and boots became mass produced, selling prices dropped¹, and now a person can replace a pair of decent shoes for a few dollars more than they might pay to have them resoled. This same pattern will likely be seen going forward as automation continues to reduce the number of people employed by any organisation. What's unfortunate is that the vast majority of us are not really good at something; at best we're merely proficient and the managers who judge our work would not see any real difference between something created by a human and something generated by a machine.

When I picked up a used camera this past summer, I was asked why the phone wasn't good enough. A fair question, and there are several reasons ranging from the lens flares that the phone creates in low light situations and the excessive processing that takes place with each photo. Sure, I could install a different photo application and use manual settings and really fiddle with the details, all of which might disappear with the next update of either the app or the operating system, but why?

The question that stuck out most after picking up the camera, though, was this:

Why drive around the country and take photos when you can just ask an AI to make the perfect picture?

Why, indeed.

There is no denying that we have some remarkable tools capable of completing in seconds a task that used to take people months or years to do. Need a photo showing a colony of penguins jumping into the Antarctic waters like lemmings? AI can do that. Need a video showing a politician playing Sweet Child of Mine on an electric guitar? AI can do that, too. Need to reduce headcount by half at a call centre? AI can certainly help you there, and it will cost less than outsourcing to India!

There's just one big problem with all of this: it's fake.

A lot of people around the globe are waking up to the reality that so much of what we read, what we hear, and what we see is a lie. Not just "incorrect". Not just "embellished". But an outright lie. This is especially true when there are glowing screens involved.

What I am beginning to see with people who are in their late 30s and older is a rejection of the false realities that we're being sold. People want honesty. People want to know that if they see something, it is real. Slight touch-ups are often allowed, such as casual photos that use HDR to capture clear images of people in various light conditions, but honesty is what people crave right now.

Who wants to watch something on YouTube that had a script written by an AI, read by a text-to-speech engine, and shows random video segments that have nothing to do with the content of the message²? Who wants to read about something in the news only to see it wedged into a particular "narrative", whether it belongs there or not? Who wants to buy a book online only to discover that the thing was generated by an AI and only the first chapter, which was part of the sample, had human involvement? Who wants to call an insurance company to report a change of address only to wait on hold for 25+ minutes for a human while an AI continually asks if they can help instead³?

Every one of these examples are things that I've personally dealt with in the past 30 days and there is no doubt that you've seen these things, too. When I talk to people about the future we are building, the overarching concern is not "What job will I do?" or "What will my children do?" It's "How do I know what's real?"

This is a valid question. An important question. And, sadly, I don't think we are dedicating enough thought to it.

1. Unless you are paying for a brand name, of course.

2. Looking at the "Views" number for some of these videos, there is obviously a market in the millions for this. I do not understand why, though, because the text-to-speech engines always have such poor pronunciation of words with multiple readings.

3. The AI will ask. So you reply and say you want to update your address. Then the AI will say "Oh, you need a human to do that! One moment!". Then … not 60 seconds later, the AI comes back and asks if you'd like to speak to it instead.

For the first time in several years, my home was momentarily without power. A crew from the utility company was hard at work before nine o'clock, replacing some of the aging electrical cables that run the length of the road — cables likely installed around the time I was born when this neighborhood sprang into existence from what used to be a peach farm.

A modern home becomes eerily quiet when its electricity supply dries up. The incessant hums from key appliances — refrigerators, dehumidifiers, air conditioners — cease. My home office, with its myriad electronics, suddenly shifts into a lower-power mode as battery backups kick in to keep the essentials running. Music from the wireless speakers spaced throughout the house stops, and, thanks to the lack of radio interference from the neighbors, mobile devices no longer jump from access point to access point as they move from one side of the house to the other.

Yes, my home network has its dedicated battery in the event of a power failure, despite how rare such occurrences are. My primary computer is a notebook with a battery that still delivers a full day of work, so long as I’m not encoding video or powering a plethora of external devices. In the event of a prolonged outage, I can draw power from a trio of Anker batteries that I keep fully charged for road trips where cameras and drones are working overtime.

As I sit in the now-still house, two thoughts dance in my head: a question and a statement.

Why did I prioritize battery power for the network over the fridge? and This is the lap of luxury.

The first question was wholly rhetorical. The network is prioritized because I have a web server in the house, and without the network, nobody can access it. It would also be foolish for me to be completely without access to the internet, given that it’s one of the core utilities I depend on for my job. The fridge, while important, can maintain a safe temperature for a few hours without power, so long as I don’t open the doors more than once or twice.

The lap of luxury thought sparked a series of reflections, many of which would require thousands of words to explore. There’s no denying that I am among the most fortunate humans to have ever existed. If you’re reading this, there’s a high probability that you are, too. Sure, we have our individual challenges, but we live in a time where the ingenuity of thousands has led to the comfort of billions.

When our grandparents were our age, color TVs were new and amazing. When our great-grandparents were our age, there might have been one or two telephones in the community. When our great-great-grandparents were our age, major newspapers were warning that “radio was going to make the printed word obsolete”¹. As we continue to refine our tools, we continue to make today a little bit better than yesterday. What a wonderful mission for humanity!

Despite the doom and gloom narratives that parade gleefully across the web and TV, I’m not buying the stories they tell. Yes, we can do things better and with less mess, but this is true for everything from power generation to making a tuna sandwich. What we — as a species — need to do is continue the steady process of making tomorrow slightly better than today. Anything less is disrespectful to the efforts of every generation that came before us.

1. I kid you not. This was a "real" concern for some editors at major newspapers.

When truth becomes scarce, the foundation of society — trust, cooperation, and progress — begins to crumble. Societies thrive when people can rely on shared truths to make decisions, solve problems, and build a better future. When dishonesty proliferates, it undermines these processes, leading to confusion, division, and stagnation.

Truth, even when uncomfortable, is necessary for growth. It allows us to recognize our mistakes, learn from them, and develop more effective solutions. Without truth, we’re stuck in a cycle of illusion, unable to address the real challenges we face.

A commitment to truth is crucial, especially in a time when "misinformation" can spread so easily. By holding onto the value of truth, even when it’s difficult, one can contribute to the possibility of a better tomorrow. It is not an easy path, but it is an essential one if we are to avoid the societal collapse that can result from widespread dishonesty.

This is also a reminder that each of us has a role to play in promoting truth. Whether it’s through our work, personal relationships, or engagement with society at large, we can choose to uphold truth and encourage others to do the same. Even small actions can make a difference in maintaining the integrity that society needs to survive and thrive.

There's something profoundly peaceful about stepping away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, leaving behind the noise and distractions of people and technology, and immersing yourself in the quiet embrace of nature. In today's fast-paced world, where the demands of work, social obligations, and digital connectivity can feel overwhelming, taking the time to retreat into nature isn't just a luxury — it's a necessity for maintaining balance and well-being.

When I think about the times I've truly felt at peace, my mind drifts to those moments spent alone in the wild, where the only sounds are the rustling of leaves in the wind, the distant call of a bird, or the gentle trickle of a stream. These experiences are more than just a break from routine; they are a form of meditation, a way to reconnect with something greater than ourselves.

There's a spiritual essence to being in nature, a sense of belonging to the earth that is hard to replicate anywhere else. It's as if the natural world is a living, breathing entity that welcomes you into its fold, offering solace and clarity in ways that are subtle yet profound. The towering trees, the vast expanse of the sky, the soft cushion of moss underfoot. They all work together to create a sanctuary where you can let go of stress and simply be.

One of the most striking aspects of spending time in nature is how it brings you back to the present moment. In our daily lives, it's so easy to get caught up in thoughts about the past or worries about the future. But when you're surrounded by the beauty of the natural world, those concerns seem to fade away. There's something about the simplicity of nature that pulls you into the here and now, allowing you to fully experience each breath, each step, and each moment of quietude.

It's during these moments of solitude that I often find a deeper connection to myself and to the world around me. Without the distractions of conversation or the constant pull of social media, I'm able to tune into my own thoughts and feelings, to reflect on what truly matters. It's as if nature provides a mirror in which we can see ourselves more clearly, stripped of the noise and clutter of modern life.

Moreover, being in nature has a way of putting things into perspective. The grandeur of a mountain range or the endless stretch of a coastline can make our daily worries seem insignificant in comparison. There's a humility that comes with realising how small we are in the grand scheme of things, and yet how connected we are to the vast web of life that surrounds us. This awareness can be both humbling and uplifting, reminding us of our place in the world and the importance of living in harmony with the earth.

For me, these trips into nature are a form of meditation; a way to recharge and reset. They remind me of the importance of slowing down, of making time to breathe deeply, and of appreciating the simple joys that life has to offer. It's not always easy to carve out this time, but the benefits are undeniable. Whether it's a short walk in the woods or a short camping trip, these moments of solitude and reflection are essential for maintaining a sense of balance and peace.

We should all make time for nature, to seek out those quiet places where we can be alone with our thoughts and the beauty of the world. In doing so, one will not only nourish the body and mind, but also cultivate a deeper connection to the earth and to reality itself. And in a world that's constantly pulling us in a million different directions, that connection is more valuable than any digital alternative can offer.

Every morning, like clockwork, the cicadas start their symphony at precisely 5:30 a.m. I'm convinced they have some sort of insect orchestra conductor, baton in hand, ready to cue the first screech. There's no snooze button for this alarm, no gentle fade-in like those fancy wake-up lights. It's more like a sudden, blaring symphony of nature's noisiest members, who apparently never got the memo about indoor voices.

At first, the sound is faint, almost gentle. You think maybe, just maybe, you can drift back to sleep. But within seconds, the chorus swells. Suddenly, it feels like you're lying in the middle of an open-air concert—front row seats to the loudest, most persistent performers you've ever encountered. Forget counting sheep; now it's all about counting the decibels.

I'll admit, there's something almost comical about the whole thing. Cicadas are the quintessential soundtrack to summer, an annual reminder that the warm months are in full swing. But that knowledge doesn't make it any easier to be jolted awake by their cacophony before the sun has fully risen. There's a certain absurdity in being roused from your dreams by creatures that are, by all accounts, tiny compared to the noise they make. If cicadas had personalities, I imagine they'd be the type to throw wild parties without ever considering the neighbours.

As the days go by, you start to develop a strange kind of acceptance. You know it's coming, you know you can't stop it, so you might as well embrace it. Maybe you even start to see the humour in it – how nature, in all its glory, insists on greeting you with such enthusiasm every single morning. The cicadas, it seems, have decided that the best way to start the day is with a bang, and they're determined to make sure you're along for the ride.

It's not just the volume that's impressive; it's the persistence. These little guys have stamina. I've tried everything to block out the sound—earplugs, white noise machines, even burying my head under a pillow—but nothing can drown out the sheer determination of a full-blown cicada chorus. They're like the morning people of the insect world, full of energy and ready to seize the day, while the rest of us are still trying to remember how to open our eyes.

And yet, despite the initial annoyance, there's a strange comfort in the routine. The cicadas are like nature's alarm clock, reminding me that another summer day is beginning. Sure, it's not the most peaceful wake-up call, but it's a signal that the world is alive and buzzing with activity, even at this early hour. It's a reminder that summer is fleeting, and before I know it, the cicadas will be silent, the mornings cooler, and I'll be waking up to the quiet chill of autumn.

So, for now, I'll take the cicadas, with all their noise and vigour. I'll smile at the absurdity of being roused from sleep by such tiny creatures, and I'll try to appreciate the fact that I'm awake to experience another summer morning, whether I was ready for it or not. After all, there's something undeniably lively about being greeted by the cicadas each day – a reminder that life, in all its noisy, chaotic glory, is meant to be lived to the fullest.

Every so often, someone will see something I whimsically created for the day job that went from a rapidly-assembled demo to a core aspect of the business in just a few weeks. Inevitably, they ask about my creative process. They know about the steps I follow to gain the necessary political capital within the organisation before management becomes aware of the project, but they are curious about how ideas form and come to life so quickly. The answer can be a bit hard to believe for some, so I generally lead with a question: Do you want to know the real process or the generic process?

When someone says "the generic process," I reply with something along the lines of:

When inspiration strikes, I set everything else aside and follow where it leads.

This is a little too generic, though. So when someone asks about "the real process," I let them know exactly where the vast majority of the best ideas come from:

My creative process consists of an honest back-and-forth conversation with God. There can be no ulterior motives behind the work; otherwise, there is no conversation. When it's just me working on a problem, the solutions are functional but sub-optimal.

This usually results in people excusing themselves from the conversation pretty quickly, as though the topic of God were taboo. It is a shame, really. It is not my place to evangelise or impose, but I do not see any reason why someone cannot admit that their best work is thanks to guidance from the creator of reality itself. Muslims are permitted to dress traditionally and thank Allah. Progressives are permitted to demand everyone adhere to their pronouns. Why are Christians held to a different standard?

That is a topic for another day, however.

When I say "it's a conversation," some people have asked if this means I'm hearing a voice while creating. Unfortunately, this is not the case. Instead, it's more like a prioritisation of responses. When I am in a flow state, my mind asks an endless number of questions. Answers bubble up almost instantly, and it's the ones that "glow" a little more than the others that attract attention. I am not sure how else to describe it. Any question can have multiple answers, none of which are necessarily perfect. It's the ones that are less opaque that generally arrive fastest and are more correct. Each answer often results in additional questions, which result in additional responses. When the most immediate and clear of these are followed to their natural conclusion, something interesting is created.

Occasionally people will ask how I know this is God rather than just imagination. A fair question, but one that can't really be answered in any measurable way. It is an act of faith that the best ideas that pop into my head are not from me, but from something far greater than I will ever comprehend.

The most interesting pattern I have found is that when the flow state arrives and I just follow where the responses guide, the end result is quite different from what I had originally envisioned and often more complete – a better answer for multiple problems rather than just the one I had been considering before writing any solution. But this only happens when I am open to whatever the end result might be. If I try to force something into existence for fame or fortune, then the entire project is a struggle.

As such, when I sit down to create something, a number of questions arise:

• Who am I creating this for?
• Am I really creating this for others? Or is it for personal aggrandising?
• Really?¹
• What does a complete solution look like for the target audience?

When I consider the endeavours that I have struggled with the most over the past few years, this pattern is seen repeatedly. When I try really hard to build something that will allow me to be self-employed, the project almost always fails. The solutions are incomplete. When I do something for others in such a way that the work seems invisible, though, it succeeds.

When you do things right, people won't be sure you've done anything at all.
– The Universe (Futurama)

These "conversations" have not happened very often lately but, when they do take place, I relish every moment. Even if the end results are never put into use the way I originally hoped, there are often new insights discovered that can be applied elsewhere in the future. Every conversation has been a learning opportunity so far, and thank God for that.

1. I understand that my ego needs to be held in check a lot.

A change in environment can do a lot of good. Last week, Ayumi and I formally moved from Chiba Prefecture back to Aichi, closing the chapter on a 20-month period of personal discovery and development. Looking back at everything accomplished during this short span, I'm amazed at how much has changed. My anxiety is gone. My stutter has disappeared, along with the headaches. My vision has improved, as has my outlook on life. The cost has been tremendous in terms of relationships and time, but the outcome is undeniably positive.

However, there is always more to do.

Over the past few months, I've been struggling with various distractions that have called into question some of my plans for the near future. Should I leave my current employer to work at a startup? Should I quit tech altogether and pursue something different? Should I stop thinking for my employer and simply do as I'm told, saving my creative energies for personal projects? Questions like these run through my head constantly as I consider the implications of possible directions. Although it's just Ayumi and me at home, I still have responsibilities to others that cannot be ignored. A consistent income and traditional employment are still required. One thing is clear: I need to get back to basics.

These past 20 months have brought a remarkable number of changes and experiences in a short period. A parade of people, places, puppies, and priorities have come and gone, leaving behind echoes of our brief interplays. What has stood out?

Preliminary complexity encourages eventual failure.

Almost everything we do starts simple and gradually becomes more complex over time. This is true for friendships, cooking, and hobbies. When I was most anxious, it was because I was trying to avoid any sort of failure. Failure seemed to invite ceaseless criticism, both externally and internally. To avoid this, I often over-planned before starting anything, ensuring every potential outcome was accounted for—a form of paralysis.

As silly as it may seem, it was my dog that showed me how unproductive this pattern of over-analysis was.

Before picking Ayumi up from the pet store, I had already bought a cage, toys, towels, shampoos, food, treats, and a pair of leashes. Her name was chosen because I liked the underlying meaning of the kanji: 歩光 (歩 = Progress / 光 = Light). I was leaning towards a white Shiba Inu but also considering a larger breed, like a Husky. I researched the necessary paperwork to register a dog with the city and investigated the reputations of various pet shops.

This culminated in a trip to a Kojima pet shop in Adachi, on the outskirts of Tokyo. They had posted a picture of a young puppy that met all my criteria and were offering a respectable discount of several hundred dollars. Given that buying a dog or cat in Japan generally costs several thousand dollars, saving a few hundred is a good deal. I asked the store clerk numerous questions: Does this dog bark a lot? Does it play well with others? Does it appear aggressive when playing? I had written down a dozen questions to ensure my Japanese was understood. Eventually, the puppy came home with me, and life has never been the same.

I quickly learned that the detailed plans I had crafted were untenable with a puppy. Ayumi was not a machine. She disliked many things I was trying hard to implement and insisted, in her own way, that I make changes.

Over the next six months, I scrapped nearly every plan made before Ayumi came home. We started going out into the world with just a skeleton of an objective. A destination was decided, maybe a few waypoints along the way, but nothing set in stone. This level of flexibility required me to overcome the anxiety that had plagued me for a decade. It felt good to be open to the unexpected again. Our treks evolved from being about reaching a specific place to enjoying the journey itself. Sometimes we would leave for a 3-hour trip to a mountain park, only to stop at a riverside rest stop and spend the afternoon playing with other dogs and taking pictures. Other times, a "quick" walk around the neighbourhood turned into a 10km adventure because we met someone along the way.

Life has become unpredictable and interesting again. It doesn't need to be scheduled, regimented, or overthought, even if we're travelling hundreds of kilometres and sleeping in a tent](https://matigo.ca/2024/04/08/going-camping). While some things should be done deliberately, this is no way to conduct every day.

Ayumi has reminded me of the importance of getting back to basics. Although I still overthink and over-plan occasionally, it's much less of a problem now than last year. Hopefully, this trend will continue.

This morning, I was jolted awake by an emergency notification on my phone, warning of an impending earthquake. As has happened so many times before, the warning amounted to nothing. Frustrated by the numerous false positives disrupting my sleep, I went into my phone’s settings and disabled emergency notifications.

Japan’s Early Earthquake Warning System is an incredibly sophisticated mechanism, originally launched in 2007 and significantly upgraded after the Great Tohoku Earthquake in 2011. It’s lauded as the most thorough and responsive warning system worldwide, a testament to the immense effort and expertise invested. The system collects data from over 4,000 seismometers across the country and on the ocean floor. When two or more stations detect seismic activity, algorithms assess the quake’s intensity and potential. If it exceeds a certain threshold in populated areas, notifications are sent out via cell towers, warning residents to brace for shaking.

The first round of upgrades around 2012 was groundbreaking; receiving a notification up to 10 seconds before feeling the tremors seemed like science fiction come to life. However, over time, the majority of notifications I’ve received have been false positives—earthquakes that turned out to be far less severe than the warnings suggested. My home has generally shaken more from passing trucks than from the quakes the EEW has alerted me to. While this doesn’t render the system useless, it does mean people might start taking these warnings with a growing dose of skepticism.

The adage "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me," and the tale of The Boy Who Cried Wolf come to mind. People tend to heed warnings until they notice a clear pattern of exaggeration.

We see a similar issue with storm warnings. Recently, it feels like every storm is trumpeted as “the worst X in Y years!” only for it to be no more intense than typical seasonal weather. Thanks to advances in engineering and building standards, Japan’s infrastructure is incredibly resilient. Houses withstand severe weather, riverbanks rarely overflow, highways flex to absorb shocks, and the power grid seldom fails. By many measures, Japan is arguably the safest and most prepared country in the world.

So why all the dire warnings?

I’ve pondered this for a while, and the most realistic theory I can come up with is that our safety has led to a paradox: the very experts who have made us so secure now feel compelled to justify their roles by amplifying warnings. This isn’t to say we should ignore all warnings, but we should be wary of professionals overwhelmed by excess information, leading to greater inaccuracies than a decade ago. Too much of anything—information or caution—can be counterproductive.

Given the unlikely prospect of a retreat from constant warnings, I’ve decided to disconnect from these public service systems. I’ve disabled emergency notifications on my phone and scaled back my daily visits to news websites. If something truly important happens, I’ll find out eventually. Otherwise, it’s probably not something I need to know.

YouTube has been recommending a bunch of videos this week where people try to answer the question of blog readership. The question has crossed my mind every so often as it's very rare that I stumble across a personal blog anymore. They almost never appear in search engine results and most of the writers I used to read regularly have long since moved on to other platforms. When Twitter really picked up steam, blogging went by the wayside for a lot of people and the ease of YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram has all but eliminated most people's efforts in crafting long-form articles.

Or so it seemed. According to several of the people on YouTube, blogging is apparently bigger than ever with millions of new articles being published every day. Nobody could provide sources for this data, but a simple Google Search suggested the daily post count on WordPress.com alone was 2.33-million per day. If combined with Medium and other long-form sites, as well as the millions of self-hosted sites out there, it's probably safe to say that there are a lot of blog posts being written and shared on a daily basis. But are these "real" blog posts? Are they automated processes that publish from other sources? Are they blocks of text written by LLMs¹?

Does it even matter?

What's interesting about the discussion on blog reading is that most people seem to focus on the writing and not the reading. Just because there are millions of things put online every day does not mean that there is an audience for those words. Looking at my own blog, which I'll admit has gone through a number of changes and droughts since its current incarnation was released in 2006, there are fewer than 10 people visiting the site every day. There are thousands of automated systems every hour, though.

But, again, does it even matter?

The reason I have continued to write is because it often helps me organise my thoughts. Most articles are not published anymore, and a lot are never finished, but the process of putting words down allows me the opportunity to see the sentences that comprise incomplete ideas to see whether they make sense or not. This has become more important over the past few years as I explore new areas of academic study and try to make use of the new information.

Every so often, though, I do wonder if anyone still reads this stuff.

1. Large Language Models, otherwise known as "AI"