They said, in the familiar, "where Erin is?"
I, somewhat contrary and so forth, ever the ass-punching originalist, contort that, "where is Erin NOT?"
Indeed, "Erin IS", and "IS Erin?" In her panties, with a towel around her head, an Arbor Mist in her maul, and beside her, one of Caitlyn's illegal cigars polluting the room, as Erin reads from the pajamahadeen, Substack, Wordpress, and so forth, calling it, dubiously, research, what to steal and what to feel--a long weekend from from the madding camera and all that, and one wonders, at all, with a vague feeling of solicitude, who she painted her toenails in order to please them, if, in the discourse, she were alone all weekend.
We have here spearfished an ontological query of import to the modern discourse, I think, where and how, IS and IS NOT, Being In The World, and Being in the Signal, her face and AI reproduction-capable likeness and voice.
But of reproducing her, we could write entire volumes, could we not?