Taste

Ask it to make something, and it will.
Ask it again, and it will make something else.

Just as good.
Just as fast.
Just as confident.

Feed it anything and it hands back version after version, none of them tired, none of them worse for having already tried forty times.

And somewhere around the fortieth version, you realize the bottleneck was never the creating. It was in whether you knew which one to keep.

Not generation, but judgment.
Not a production skill, but a withholding skill.

Knowing which draft to kill.
Which take was the take.

The machine has swallowed every pattern anyone's ever made, which makes it extraordinary at variation and strangely empty-handed when it comes to preference — it can't want one version more than another. It can only offer you all of them and wait.

Maybe the thing that made us human in all this was never the creating.
It was the choosing.