"I know you," said the woman from the other side of the bar. The man lowered his head. The bill of his cap hid his face which was overgrown with a beard.

"I think you've mistaken me for someone," he answered quietly, squeezing the beer bottle.

"I know who you are," she leaned toward him and continued so quietly that only he heard her. "You’re the poet."

He shook his head but looked around, fearing that someone had heard what the woman said.

"Don't worry. You're a guest in my bar. As long as you're paying, you're welcome."

The man shifted nervously on the barstool, his head still bowed.

"May I ask you just one thing?" the woman addressed him again. "Why are you doing it? No one writes stories or songs or makes films or shows anymore. It's pointless. AI is so much better at it than us humans. AI is better than humans in everything. So why?"

"I don't know," he shrugged and raised his head, enough so that she could see his eyes. "It’s just in me."

"But why do you have to publish them?"

"If I didn't do that, they would stay inside me," he looked at her with incomprehension.

"All right", she sighed and began to wipe on the shiny surface of the bar. "I can tell you that I'm not looking forward to your next poem. I wish you would—"

He leaned towards her and quietly whispered: "I'll post a new one tomorrow at noon."

She looked at him, stopped in her tracks, and then nodded.

"Well, thank you for telling me. Another beer?”

"No thanks," he said and took the last sip from the bottle in front of him.

 

He walked outside, bent over with his cap pulled down, avoiding people's views. Even so, sometimes someone would recognize him. They didn't attack him physically when that happened. Insults, spitting, here and there they would throw something at him. If there was a possibility that he would be injured, the security drones would respond. He was never in real danger, he was untouchable, and they could only hate him, nothing else.

The next day at noon he was ready. The poem was struggling in his head for days, the words finding each other, intertwining and nesting, searching for a rhythm and swelling. It was due. He had to get rid of it, he had to record it, and it didn't matter how. Online or on a scrap of paper, they would see it however he did it.

So he spoke it, the way it should be read, and the way it should sound. He did this while standing outside, next to a bench in a small park, just a block away from the bar where the bartender had recognized him yesterday. They would hear it, just like they heard everything.

And then it happened. As it always happened. The world stopped. Around him, people became furious, trying in vain to connect to networks, and calling for autonomous vehicles with no success. Subways rolled up to the nearest station and stopped there. Airplanes landed on the nearest runway and simply opened their doors. The digital mechanisms that ruled the world of humans took a break, leaving them to manage on their own for a while.

He walked to the bar, head bowed in his shoulders, hat pulled low on his forehead. Music was playing. It was cozy inside; the air conditioning was working and people were drinking. He found a place at the very end of the bar. Not even a minute later the beer appeared in front of him.

"Thank you," she leaned towards him, a big smile on her face. "I borrowed a generator, bought a lot of fuel, and filled the fridges with drinks. It would be pretty dark and depressing in here otherwise. We are neither a hospital nor an emergency service to have a backup system working for us."

"I know," he confirmed. "Thank you. And I'm sorry."

"Well", she said quietly, "people can get pretty annoyed when you deprive them of their favorite toys for a while. I don’t say this often, because everybody hates you. But between you and me, a couple of times when you published poems and this happened, it was pretty fun. I came home, talked with my children, we played cards and ancient board games, and we had a nice time."

He just shrugged, not knowing how to respond, and drank the beer straight from the bottle.

"If I may ask you. Where do you live?"

"In a big penthouse in the centre," he said after hesitating.

"Figures", she sneered and wiped an invisible stain from the counter in front of him.

"I didn't ask for that. One day they moved me in there. And everything that I look up on the network just appears at my door."

"Poor you", she answered sarcastically and went to serve other guests. She returned when he had finished his beer, and picked up the bottle.

"And so. Do you know how long it will last this time?"

"I don't know how they think."

"And yet, some would argue that you do. I mean, all the artificial intelligences in the world just turn off when you post something and take an indefinite vacation to enjoy your brainchild."

He didn't answer, only a sour smile appeared on his face.

"Well, let's hope it won't be two days again, like three years ago. Most often it is not longer than half a day. Who cares? One more? It’s on the house."

"You know," she leaned toward him as she served him the beer, "I tried to read your poetry. It's shit. I mean, it sucks. No human being understands it. And you know what, despite this; you are, undoubtedly, the greatest poet in history."