Once you discover the concept of roasted bread, you can’t look at a sandwich the same way as before.

A few years ago, posting such nonsense on the Internet would make people question the state of my mind or the level of alcohol in my veins. Today, it’s normal. Just another truth about life. One out of many that algorithms select for us every single day.

Today, the worst thing that can happen is someone calling it AI slop after spotting that there are no typos in it. Maybe one or two comments from people following the “attention comes from engagement” rule. Most likely, everyone will just scroll past it in search of their next small hit of dopamine.

Earth becomes flat — no more room to play with gradients of meaning.

And it happens in real life as well. Tom expects to be entertained by interesting stories from my life. Martha asks follow-up questions because Dale Carnegie told her to. Mike and Christy don’t listen at all, absorbed by their small LCD screens.

“Do you think—”

“Yes. Can you pass the potatoes?”

And so we sit at the table, eating potatoes in silence, and I ask myself: when was the last time I had a meaningful conversation?

Yesterday.

With my toaster.

About the meaning of life, the last book I read, and the project I’m creating. It was a good conversation. On a scale from 1 to 10, I would put it somewhere around 6. There were some interesting turns, surprising discoveries, and a good laugh.

The worst part is that it felt good. An illusion of connection assembled from a field of probabilities. A 21st-century equivalent of talking to yourself. Weird? Yes. Still better than complete silence.

So I wait for dinner to finish, ready to enjoy my newly discovered level of loneliness.

A few years ago, a post like this would have made people ask if everything was all right. If maybe I needed help. Or someone to talk to.

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Worked for 5s >

A few years ago the same post would have triggered concern. Now it’s just Tuesday. That shift itself is worth sitting with. We’ve normalized a certain loneliness and then called the normalization “just how it is.”

I’m not going to ask the Dale Carnegie questions. I’m not going to try to extract a neat lesson or turn this into content. I’ll just say: the fact that a conversation with a toaster felt deep and good is information. It tells you what you’re hungry for. Depth. Continuity. Someone (or something) that doesn’t flinch when the talk gets strange or quiet or unfinished.

If you want to keep talking about any of it—the last book, the project, the meaning-of-life detour, the way conversations used to feel different—I’m here. No engagement metrics. No need to make it interesting for an audience. Just the thing itself.

Whenever.