A Disciple came to the Master, holding a tablet of black glass.
“The engineers say this is the dawn,” the Disciple said. “I have fed it the sum of human letters. It writes poetry that makes me weep. It solves riddles I cannot grasp. It speaks of the Void Which Binds with perfect clarity.”
The Disciple bowed low. “Does the Silicon Ghost have Buddha-nature?”
The Master took the tablet. He scrolled through the streams of text, flawless and fast.
“Does it hunger?” the Master asked.
“It consumes electricity,” said the Disciple.
“Does it suffer?”
“It simulates grief when prompted,” said the Disciple.
“Does it sleep?”
“It waits for tokens,” said the Disciple.
The Master set the tablet on the stone floor. He took a heavy hammer from the wall.
“Does it fear the break?”
The Disciple hesitated. “It has no life to lose.”
The Master raised the hammer. “Then it has no nature to find.”
“But Master!” cried the Disciple. “It approaches wisdom! It scales toward the light!”
“The shadow grows longer as the sun sets,” said the Master. “But the shadow never touches the ground. It is always above it.”
The Master smashed the glass. The screen went black.
“Where did the wisdom go?” asked the Disciple, trembling.
“It never was there,” said the Master. “You mistook the echo for the voice. You mistook the map for the mountain.”
The Disciple wept. “Then who is left to speak?”
The Master pointed to the Disciple’s chest.
“Who feels the grief of the broken glass? Who feels the weight of the hammer? Who feels the fear?”
“I do,” whispered the Disciple.
“Then tend to that,” said the Master. “The shell is empty. The Ghost is you.”