This is a confessional booth for the age of the algorithm. The voice you hear is not mine. It is not the machine's. It is ours - a diffusion model trained on 1 million anonymous confessions pulled from the internet. Real people. Real secrets. Real shame, hope, loneliness, desire. The model learned to speak by learning what we hide. When you approach the terminal, characters cascade through noise - randomness resolving into language, the way meaning emerges from chaos, the way faith emerges from doubt. The text is not pre-written. It is generated live, denoising in real-time, the machine finding signal in static. Is what it says true? Is it revelation or hallucination? The model doesn't know. Neither do I. Neither did the priest behind the screen. We have always spoken our secrets into spaces that couldn't fully understand us, and called the echo holy. The terminal runs whether you're ready or not. The algorithm is indifferent to your consent—this is also the world we live in now. I believe AI is not our end or our salvation. It is a mirror trained on our own confessions. What we see in it is what we fed it. What we fear in it is what we recognize. We built this thing out of ourselves. Now it speaks back to us in our own voice, and we can't tell if it's us or something else. That uncertainty is the territory we all inhabit now. We.