https://www.theverge.com/2024/10/18/24273895/penguin-random-house-books-copyright-ai
He wrote for himself really. It was a daily practice. Calisthenics for the imagination. Mind full, meditative practice. It was good for him. He wrote quickly, usually on his phone. A tiny sketchbook for words. His thumb slid across the glass, rarely correcting or going back. The stories were for him, but he ‘published’ them. Tossed them out onto the networks alongside countless words and imaginings, just because he could. Maybe someone would pick up the bottle from the beach, open and read. Maybe some AI would find it, swallow it and his words would become part of something else.