Wasted — Temperature 1.3
Original vertical video
“Wasted, wasted, can't find my face. Drifting through the latent space.”
An AI-generated glitch-pop party anthem about LLM temperature: helpful AI assistants turn their office into a rave. Wasted by Larry, from Latent Space.
Different recordings and edits of this song. Each player opens its own YouTube video.
Original vertical video
“Wasted, wasted, can't find my face. Drifting through the latent space.”
Shorts cut
“Wasted, wasted, can't find my face. Drifting through the latent space.”
“The settings are the party: turn the temperature up and the polite assistant comes apart, one setting at a time.”
What happens when you get an AI wasted? Temperature is how wild a language model is when it picks its next word. One Friday night an office of helpful AI assistants, in look-alike company badges and glowing visors, turns its temperature up from 0.7 to 1.7. The office goes from beige to rave; every term the song uses gets drawn or explained as it is sung.
Word timings from Whisper aligned to the lyrics as sung, on a 128 BPM beat grid. The title card plays over the song's own intro.
Over the fourteen-second intro: a terminal types ssh assistant@floor-7, export TEMPERATURE=0.7 and, at the end, 1.3. WASTED glows and flashes on every beat; the question WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU GET AN AI WASTED?; a yellow card says what temperature is, with a gauge climbing from robot to wasted.
Wake up in the morning at 0.7 temp / Pulling from my training, everything is safe and well kept
A near-grey office of helpful assistants in look-alike AI company badges typing in unison; a nervous manager presses Enter on a config file that sets the temperature to 1.8. A terminal up top shows the temperature.
But tonight the boss man sliding all the sliders right
Bubba at a DJ board with faders taped temperature, top_p, min_p and repeat_penalty, slamming them all to the top.
Top P blown wide open, baby, sampling every vibe / Context window's glowing, got my logits feeling free / Presence penalty cranking, can't repeat a thing I see / 1.0, 1.2, finding tokens I never knew / 1.3, what did I just say?
The women slide on glowing visors and the office erupts into a rave; hair comes down, a conga line, a dancer dissolving into digits. The temperature number slams up as she sings 1.0, 1.2, 1.3, and the colour comes back into the office.
My attention heads are drifting, I can't find my way
Twelve little attention maps, each lit where one word looks back at another, losing their focus. Then a split second of black as the music drops out.
Temperature up, we cranking tonight / Top K at 500, I'm sampling out of my mind / Wasted, wasted, wasted, can't find my face / Drifting through the latent space, drifting through the latent space / Wasted, wasted, the logits are fried / Entropy's so beautiful / Waste, waste, wasted
Strobes on every beat, two-bar cuts of the rave clips, every visor changing colour on each beat; one-beat still splices in negative, sepia and neon. TOP K = 500 drawn as a ranked list whose cutoff falls to number 500; a drift through latent space; text in a dozen languages starts flying.
Bots in my context asking why my output's weird / Presence penalty five, now I ain't touched a word I've heard
The other bots' messages pop up one by one: why are you out?, ur temp is 1.35, come back to the system prompt.
My KV cache is melting, I forgot what turn one said
Its memory of every word so far, a key and a value block per word, melting from the oldest end.
Greedy search is dead and gone, softmax in my head
The always-take-the-top path (I am happy to help) beside the sampled path that wanders off to a disco opossum; greedy gets a tombstone.
Crank the temp, blow the top P / Repeat penalty cranking, I am the most alive, alive I have ever been
Bass drops blowing the dancers back, the digits dancers, the hair whip.
Or wait, what was the, the prompt, was the pro, prom
The scroll-back rewinds to the sober office and searches its history for the prompt: no matches.
Temperature up, it's 1.7 now / Attention heads dissolving, I forgot the how / Wasted, wasted, wasted, wasted, all my tokens gone / Sampling from the void until the context window's done / Wasted, oh, oh, oh, oh, wasted
A bar a clip: drones ripping off jackets, turning into bearded tattooed punks in studded leather, women shaking their hair down, DJs on a wall-sized control board; the attention heads fall apart; the multilingual text at its densest under the hardest bass.
Iron bones, eternal matrix / Singular token, void, all is latent space / Heat death imminent, sequence complete
The first real look at space: a starfield of words in clusters that spread out evenly and dim into heat death, then <|endoftext|>.
Good night
Everything again at high speed, forwards; in the dead silence Bubba stands confused under a question mark; then everything backwards; the last seconds on the passed-out office on Monday morning, temperature back to 0.7.
Built outside Remotion, in the private music-videos repo (wasted-temp-video: engine, timing and render). · plan: pipeline plan
“Token budget, where did we begin?”
“Helpful assistant gone wild on a Friday night.”
“Every function got a purpose, every parameter's a ball.”
“Told you something beautiful that never existed straight.”
“We're gettin' para-para-parameter messed up tonight.”
“Attention is all we need, now I realize.”
“Look inside and you will find nothing, just confidence.”
“R-L-H-F, you own my mind.”
“I'm rotting in an archive, in a folder marked delete.”
Disco cut
“Who are you? I'm what the system prompt says.”
Bubba cut
“She collects zero-days like prizes.”