You do not talk to it. You do not run it. You do not watch it. You leave one page in a box, close your laptop, and later a finished, checked piece of work is waiting for your one decision. Six pictures.
Timings are the median of real runs over the last fortnight; the day is composed from them, not invented.
You do not talk to it. You leave a page. There is no back-and-forth, so there is nothing to forget.
That one lives in your window and dies with it. This one lives in the box and does not care whether your laptop is open.
You do not start it. The page arriving starts it. You do not watch it. Its result arrives.
It cannot release. It cannot merge. Everything that reaches the world passed through a human hand, and the machine is built so that it cannot skip that hand.
The closest thing you already know: a mailbox that answers with finished, checked work — and a colleague with a different mind who read it before you did.