If the machines can do our research and write our stories, and build our houses and think ‘smarter’ thoughts than we can and all the rest of it - what is our role? What is the point of humanity at all? For the subset of us who write and tell stories, another question emerges too: can we even find the space, away from the buzzing of the Machine, to incubate the stories we want to tell? Stories descend when you make the right space for them within you. Writers are vessels. How can we possibly tell real, human, stories if our heads are full of digital noise? Will the ‘writers’ of the future even know what stories are, away from the enabling, imprisoning Panopticon of the digital world?