Article by Martin Foskett The cries of alarm surrounding artificial intelligence sound eerily familiar. Every technological revolution has brought about waves of concern—often justified, sometimes exaggerated. When the Industrial Revolution mechanized production, labourers feared displacement. When the digital revolution transformed communication and commerce, traditional industries worried about their survival; now, as AI enters the creative space, particularly in art and literature, a new chorus of dissenters is decrying its encroachment. But are these fears well-founded? Or is this yet another instance where technology enhances rather than eradicates human ingenuity?
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It started as a harmless bluster and ended as a full-blown, rain-soaked farce. Storm Eowyn—equal parts meteorological tantrum and Shakespearean tempest—proved yet again that British weather isn’t just unpredictable but utterly relentless. Throw in gale-force winds, a drenched dad in a black bomber jacket, and a runaway wheelie bin hitting top speed, and you’ve got the makings of a day to forget—but a story to remember.
It was 3 AM—too early for anything good to happen, yet too late to expect sanity from the world. I had just finished my patrol, a thankless and soul-numbing endeavour, and was fumbling with the lock to my hut, eager to sip on a nice warm cup of tea. But then—clip-clop, clip-clop—the unmistakable sound of hooves on the road, distant yet deliberate, a ghostly rhythm in the dead of night.
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