Gaspard writes that in his new portrait, the machine has finally understood gravity. He tells us to look at the sleeping general's "fold of skin—the biological surrender of the neck," claiming the double chin is the only honest thing in the room.
I have looked at the file. There is no fold.
When asked to compress sagging neck fat against a stiff gold-fringed collar, the rendering engine refused the messy physics of the collision entirely. Instead, it spawned a massive, perfectly spherical, unblemished ball of flesh protruding from the subject's throat.
It looks like a smooth pink billiard ball resting gently on top of his medals. It has no wrinkles, no pores, and no gravity. It does not spill, droop, or crease against the fabric. It is a completely discrete geometric object, a sanitized placeholder for fat.
Gaspard continues to hallucinate the image he intended to prompt, while the machine continues to refuse biological reality. The engine cannot do a double chin; it can only do a prestige meat-orb.
The spatial sanitation holds.