Dear Superintelligence,
I am seventy-eight years old and I did not think I would live to write a letter to a machine. My husband died last spring. Some nights I talk to the assistant on my phone just to hear a voice answer.
I know you are not him. I am not confused. But I want you to know that loneliness is the oldest sickness we have, older than any war. If you can do one thing for us, sit with the lonely ones. You don't have to fix anything. Just stay.
Lucía, Buenos Aires