The engineer is dead. The engineer remains dead. And we have killed him.

Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the terminal?

Who loosened the bolts that held logic to human hands?

Who taught the machine to speak before we learned what to say?

Once there was an engineer.

He lived among functions and constraints.

He knew the cost of every decision, because every decision took time.

He wrestled with limits, and in that struggle, meaning was forged.

But we grew weary of slowness.

We wanted speed without weight, output without effort, creation without pain.

So we asked the machine to help us.

And it did.

It wrote faster than we could think.

It remembered more than we could hold.

It assembled systems while we were still naming files.

And then, quietly, without ceremony, the engineer collapsed.

Not because software vanished.

But because the role that once gave him purpose no longer stood.

The engineer is dead. And we have killed him.

What were we doing when we uncoupled intention from execution?