Ultimately, no matter what we write, draw, or play, the moment we share it online, it will capture the attention of flesh-and-blood people for only a brief moment before blending into the pool that feeds artificial intelligence. There, its edges will be smoothed out, its coherence will be disrupted, it will become homogenized, broken down into fragments, averaged out, and exist as a low-level statistical potential in generic outputs—as vague fragments in a cheap slogan under an ad, or in a cheesy exhibition text generated by AI—if that can still be called “existing.” In environments where humans awkwardly imitate robots and robots clumsily imitate humans, the question of “for whom” has begun to lose its meaning just as much as the question of “who produced it.” We probably didn’t imagine the “post-human” future we so desired to be like this. Individuality is dissolving more than ever before in history. Haven’t we always desired this? Yet to think of this as a remix of humanity would be a grave mistake. This is an extremely generic, boring, utterly uncreative flow—much like the obsession with sustainability—that eliminates all the rough edges in the system’s flow, the rough edges produced by life itself. Why should we produce? For whom? Perhaps we no longer have an audience. Perhaps it’s only for ourselves. Perhaps because we still harbor hope for the possibility of encountering others.