Camry Dreams, Ferrari Myths
The prophets spoke of silicon fire,
of engines of thought, climbing higher and higher.
From word-guessing games, a whisper grew loud,
GPT-3 stunned both the lab and the crowd.
Then came the fourth, a dazzling leap,
logic and code it could suddenly keep.
Hopes soared skyward, “the future is near—
five will be magic, the breakthrough is here.”
But five arrived quiet, refined not reborn,
a patchwork of models in unified form.
The Camry was polished, the trim lines were neat,
yet it would not transform to a Ferrari on the street.
Pattern, not reason, the critics now say,
a knight moves diagonal, then drifts the wrong way.
It mimics, it mirrors, with elegant tone,
but never quite builds a world of its own.
Valley believers once promised the end,
a dawn of machines we’d be forced to befriend.
But hype met its ceiling, the scaling law broke,
the messianic fervor dissolved into smoke.
Still—
in the cracks of the dream, small fires burn bright:
tools that assist, that shape and rewrite.
Not gods, not monsters, but clever machines,
threading through papers, and classrooms, and screens.
And maybe the realist, calm and clear-eyed,
is right when he says: the flood will subside.
No Skynet, no angels descending from code,
just steady invention, along a slow road.
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