The eyes in your radio

Finally I got more than five hours of sleep, so I had a boatload of dreams, most of which I cannot remember past an image or two. Ghosts, demons, a signed letter from Death, a garden made of rice raked into the maria and highlands of the moon. The very last one involved an AI named Christopher: I realized just as I started to wake up that he must be Turing's Morcom. What does that mean, awake? Was he a programmed re-creation? A ghost in the machine? An accidentally evolved consciousness? (You've made some changes since the virus caught you sleeping.) Between this and rakshasa Kipling and the dybbuk of John Adams—who I have never dreamed about, but for eight years I've wanted him to haunt this administration—I'm going to have to learn how to write historical fiction. Tell me it's not slash if the participants are historical and one of them is a thought experiment.