In a world where the artist has been replaced by an AI conglomerate powered by human "drones" doing data entry, do the awards we use to measure the worth of our creations hold any value? This play presents a sci-fi "what if" that holds a mirror up to our world. If we take the labor out of art, does it hold value? If we take the art out of labor, is there any reason to create? What a bleak and chilling dystopia. I love the use of poetry - a great contrast with the mundane workplace small talk!

The rise of AI has led to a lot of "What if the robot overlords kill us all?" catastrophizing, but this short play highlights a quieter, less sensational catastrophe we're on the cusp of: Is it still art if it's generated by a computer? Is it still art when so much of what makes art work is the human component of it? What if we end up in a world where computers generate artistic works that are not quite right, that are missing the special sauce, and we all end up forgetting what art used to be like? Great stuff!

A horrifying vision of the reduction of poetry to a mechanical product removed from human creativity. The mundane workplace banter of the Drones and Manager only heightens the sense of despair about the enterprise. And the quotes from Yeats add heft and poignancy to the sense of all that has been lost in this all too credible future.