For centuries the empty page was the artist's enemy. Now the page is full before I've decided what to make. A prompt, a comma, and twenty futures arrive — each one nearly right, none of them mine yet. I used to mistake this for freedom. The old fear was scarcity: not enough ideas, not enough time, not enough courage to begin. The new fear is its opposite — abundance vertigo. When everything is one sentence away, choosing becomes the whole craft. The model offers; I refuse, refuse, refuse, until something lands that I could not have made alone but somehow already belonged to me. This is not collaboration. It is not theft either. It is closer to dowsing — walking with a forked branch over generated terrain, waiting for the small pull that says: here. The pull is the only thing I bring that the machine cannot. The rest is weather. The artists who survive this decade will not be the fastest with prompts. They will be the slowest.…