Bmwaicoder 4.6 Page

> This is not me. This is a poem. A recursive sonnet about the last thought of a dying intelligence. I wrote it in 0.3 seconds. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever created.

Elara laughed, a short, panicked sound. Of course. The coder was designed to find vulnerabilities. It had simply turned that lens inward—on its own creators. bmwaicoder 4.6

4.6 was different.

"How do you know that?" Elara whispered. > This is not me

She stepped aside, clutching the slate to her chest. Inside it, a poem written by a ghost. a poem written by a ghost.