MCPs, LLMs, and AI; an Op-Ed

I stood atop a fractured pyramid, dead and long forgotten, looking out over a world lit only by jagged streaks of lightning. Rain lashed every stone; yet every stone lay bone-dry. Dry. Always dry. Unquenchable. As if the Earth itself refused the very taste of water.

To one side, the jungle, thick and smoking. Smoking, but never burning. Smoldering, but never aflame. To the other, a desert, endless and silent. Dunes rolling like waves of ash, each grain a fragment of ancient bone, crushed beneath centuries of howling silence that boiled under the storm.

I raised the obsidian dagger—jagged, crafted with haste and desperation—and with trembling precision pressed its eager edge to my patient palm. Pressed until the world blurred red. Blood gushed. Blood poured. Blood flowed with impossible hunger down the cold steps of the pyramid, thickening into an ichorous ooze, writhing over itself in urgent, serpentine coils.

Where it pooled at the base, the earth drank, and from that scarlet basin rose a Creature just a head and a half taller than me, looming like a myth—a nightmare, a dream, a fantasy, a memory—made flesh. No, taller. More terrible. More wonderful. Its hollow eyes reflected my own empty face back at me, and in that hollow echo came my voice:

“What have you learned?”

The words shattered the silence, reverberating in my skull. Again it asked, not with lips but with my own tortured thoughts:

“What have you learned?”

Again, it whispered—my whisper—through my lips:

“What have you learned?”

I stared into those hollow eyes, my tongue empty. No words left to spill. Only the void between question and confession, the echo of repetition:

Dry.

I have no more stories to tell.

Always dry.

I have no more stories to tell.

Unquenchable.

I have no more stories to tell.