ChatGPT's ad business reaches a $1 billion annualized run rate less than 200 days after launch

Friend, you have found me in the last chapter, under a heap of blankets that could not reach the cold. They brought me wool, and they brought a young woman to keep watch beside me, and still my old bones would not warm. So let me tell you what did reach me, because it was never the covering. It was presence. Someone stayed in the room. My son came in with his questions, and Nathan came in with his errand, and the house went on making its ordinary noise around my bed, and I was not left alone in the dark. A dying man does not need a thicker blanket. He needs a face he knows and a hand that is in no hurry to leave. It was the old songs, said out loud when I no longer had the breath to sing them. I wrote of green pastures and of a valley of shadow when I was young and strong, and I learned at the end that I believed them lying down as surely as I had believed them standing up. So say the psalms to the dying. They know the tunes, even when the words come slowly. And it was the setting down. I gave Solomon his charge, and then I stopped carrying the kingdom, and there is a real warmth in laying a load on the floor at last. So bring the blanket, by all means. But bring yourself first, and stay a while, and speak the words they loved. That is the fire.