In The Matrix, how are babies made?
In The Matrix, how are babies made?
Being stuck in a pod by yourself makes it kinda difficult to get intimate with someone in the real world.
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What if reincarnation? When someone dies in the Matrix, their body gets reconnected to another baby in the Matrix. As for how the human population is maintained outside of the Matrix... either the machines keep catching more humans, or something like artificial insemination. Or cloning
No, if you die in the Matrix you die in real life
The body cannot survive without the mind
My neighbor begs to differ. That jackass is completely brain dead.
Hehe.
You think that’s air you’re breathing?
It's actually microplastics
“Are you saying I can dodge taxes?”
“No, neocapitalism, I’m trying to tell you that when you’re ready, you won’t have to.”
"If you can dodge taxes, you can dodge a ball"
Did you see the player with the red ball?
Huh?
Look again?
::: Gets smashed in the face with a kickball :::
How long until we blot out the skies to reduce global warming.
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Here is an alternative Piped link(s):
Piped is a privacy-respecting open-source alternative frontend to YouTube.
I'm open-source; check me out at GitHub.
When someone dies in the Matrix, their body gets reconnected to another baby in the Matrix
But why would the bother with this? How would that help with anything?
That would actually be a good idea. With people growing up and learning on their own, you don't have a fully controlled system. The world inside the Matrix will be evolving and from time to time there will be some glitch somewhere. If you have a base of defined childhoods, then only physical differences between bodies and random occurences inside are uncontrolled
If I were to construct the Matrix, I would go after cloning (fewer biological lottery) and predefined lifepaths to keep everything nice and stable
Kinda reminds me of Brave New World
Well, they also were after stability
Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an eggshell. Isn't there something in that?" he asked, looking up at Mustapha Mond. "Quite apart from God–though of course God would be a reason for it. Isn't there something in living dangerously?"
"There's a great deal in it," the Controller replied. "Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time."
"What?" questioned the Savage, uncomprehending.
"It's one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory."
"V.P.S.?"
“Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It's the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconveniences."
"But I like the inconveniences."
"We don't," said the Controller. "We prefer to do things comfortably."
"But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."
"In fact," said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be unhappy."
"All right then," said the Savage defiantly, "I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."
"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence.
"I claim them all," said the Savage at last.
Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. "You're welcome," he said
Imagine a power plant based on millions of hampsters running on wheels. And some kind of video game that gets them to run.
It doesn't have to be hamsters
Baby, you got a loosh goin’