Look, I'm even capitalizing its name, with the weird respect we showed it for a few years. But can it show me my own poem from college, about Manhattan island, Denise's gaze stripping away historic layers, time not so much passing but piling up, like layers in sedimentary rock?
No, it cannot.
And she didn't really do that anyway. I did, imagining her looking at it, through her History-lover's eyes.