One AI Overview = One level of abstraction away from the reality of a situation.
Example: You asked google how many hamburgers are in a cuil
1 AI Overview:
If you asked google how many hamburgers are in a cuil and it gives you this result
Image description: a google search result for the question ‘how many hamburgers are in a cuil’. The AI Overview result does not answer that question (it’s a nonsense question anyway but the AI Overview answers a question I didn’t ask), explain what cuil theory is or mention cuils at all. It does say that a cow can produce around 2,000 burgers from its meat (this does not seem right to me but I don’t know enough to argue with it)
2 AI Overview: I get lazy and post the Cuil Theory video
ok so if anyone's heard of cuil theory i wrote a marine biology themed set of cuils. (linked for an explanation of what they are)
trigger warning for: horror, existential dread and such, mentions of blood, and ALOT of corpses and dead bodies, and death in general
if you can guess the marine biology metaphor/theme you can have a metaphorical brownie.
0 cuils
You return home from a long journey. You’re tired and lay down to rest on your soft bed. You sleep better than you have in years.
it gets weird from here on :)
1 cuil
Your bed has moved to the living room. How did it get there? The room has a thick layer of dust covering it. You’ve tracked mud into the carpet, although it was already thick with ageless grime. The position of the bed doesn’t bother you. You’re still home, after all. Sinking into the bed, you fall asleep.
2 cuils
Something about your bed feels … off. It’s nothing you can place exactly. Maybe the mattress is harder than it used it be, maybe the bodies are rotting faster than they should be. They’re entangled in the sheets. If they weren’t decomposing, you’d think they were dreaming. When you get into the covers, a body slides limply onto the grimy carpet. An arm detaches from the hinge easily. It disturbs the dust on the carpet, rising up into the air in small vortexes. Food crumbs and plastic bags rise up with it. You ignore it all, too tired to really pay attention. Your journey has come to an end, as it always must, and always will.
3 cuils
Water lapping at your body jerks you awake. You weren’t meant to wake up. Why can you see the beams of sunlight streaming up into the sky? This wasn’t meant to happen. The water is cold against your skin. The bed won’t stay afloat for long, the red fleshy mattress oozes blood where you touch it. Blood pools into the water, attracting things to nibble at the bed and your fingers as you sink deeper into the flowing currents. This is the way it is meant to be, isn’t it? Are you not happy to fulfil your purpose? The bed frame reaches the floor smoothly. Grime rises from the sediment in small vortexes. A corpse floats up to the surface. The water smothers you suffocatingly, but it isn’t painful. The water feels like home. You feel your nose and mouth fill with water, and your body floats. You sleep well.
4 Cuils
You’re back in the river and you’re dying. There is no bed to support you anymore, just hundreds of other bodies like yours, dying or already dead long ago. They’re swimming around hopelessly, over and under each other. The river does not have the space to support you all. Many are trying to complete their mission before they die permanently. Some have given up or have been trapped on the banks of the river.
A body turns to you. It’s a bloated corpse, like all the others.
A BODY: It feels good, doesn’t it? To have a function.
You want to reply. You want to agree. Your mouth moves, opening and closing. Don’t bother trying to make a sound. It’s too late for you now. You’ve done your job and now it’s over. You flop around uselessly. Your limbs are not cooperating anymore. You should feel fear if you were capable of it. More bodies speak. You cannot distinguish the voices from each other. You wish they would shut up and let you rest.
A BODY: Swim fast, swim fast.
A BODY: Greet the water willingly.
A BODY: Join us.
A BODY: I’m glad we met again. It was nice coming home.
You move your lifeless head as well as you can. A pathetic nod. It’s all you can manage at this stage. You joined the corpses long ago, it’s a miracle that you’re even thinking. The first body looks at you. You look at the body. Like a mirror image, you both close your eyes and sleep.
5 cuils
You’re… home. What is a home anyway? You were born here, and you’ll die here. That’s what a home is. You open the door and fall through the opening. A gaping pit greets you with comforting arms. You’re tired and welcome the fall. You wanted to sleep, but the bed was in the garden. The house was never there. It vanished as you opened the door. I think the gust of wind made you fall. Why would you choose to fall down the hole? Who would even do that?
The pit ends in a dank pool of water. You sink to the ground. Fish tear at your skin and you welcome it. Join the grime and the dirt. Join it, and sleep.
6 cuils
The trolley will roll down the hill. You will be tied to the front. The legs and arms of something else will be tied to you. You won’t know how you got these new limbs. The trolley will roll uncontrolled down the hill. You won’t see the end until it’s too late. Maybe there will be a river to greet you. Wouldn’t that be nice? Wind will batter your face like an uncaring friend.
Why are you having these thoughts? You have never seen a trolley. What even is a trolley and what is a hill? What are legs and what are arms? What is a friend and what is the wind? Will you ever learn what these things are? All you know is your journey. You left your home, and you returned home. You’re so tired. This journey will be so tiring. You want to sleep. Will you ever sleep?
7 cuils
Your bed is where it belongs, but someone else is using it. It’s you. You’re using it. But you’re here, standing, so how can you be using it? The journey has been long and you’re fucking exhausted. It seems you already fell asleep in your bed. It doesn’t feel like your bed. You push your body out of bed and take its place. It falls to the ground into the disgusting carpet. It falls face flat into the tar rising, seeping out of the floorboards. The tar consumes your body as you watch from the bed. The tar brings more bodies through the floor. You don’t recognise any of them. Faceless corpses rotting and rotting and rotting. That will be you soon. It’s already you, can’t you see? Just accept it’s going to be you no matter what you do. The bed grows tar, enveloping you. You close your eyes. You don’t want to see your body on the floor as the tar eats away at it. Sleep seems nice, doesn’t it. The bodies are sleeping. You’re a body, aren’t you?
