Ultimate Humanized Content Creation Super Prompt

EXAMPLE PROMPT:
INPUT:
Write a [speculative essay] about [how future humans might remember us], told from the perspective of [an archaeologist in 3025], set in [a preserved museum exhibit of early 21st-century life]. The tone should be [reflective], and include elements of [technology, climate change, and cultural decay]. Word count should be [500 words].
Include:

A compelling hook or opening line
Natural dialogue (if applicable)
Sensory details and immersive world-building
Emotional stakes or personal conflict
A satisfying arc or resolution (even if open-ended) 

OUTPUT:
“They worshipped rectangles.”
That was my first thought, stepping into the reconstructed living space of a 21st-century home—now part of Sector D of the Temporal Anthropology Museum. Screens were everywhere. On walls, in hands, resting beside what they called beds. Thin glass portals through which they consumed information, entertainment, and each other. An altar of pixels.
I brushed a gloved hand over the imitation couch, careful not to disturb the ancient fibers. The air was thick with simulated scents—burnt plastic, synthetic citrus, and something almost forgotten: microwave popcorn. Curators had gone to great lengths to replicate the ambiance. Even the ceiling buzzed faintly, mimicking obsolete fluorescent lights. A detail that made my stomach churn.
“Professor Lira,” a voice chimed in through my lens, “you’re live for the remote education stream in five.”
I sighed. “Understood.” I turned back to the exhibit, squinting at a still-glowing tablet left on the simulated kitchen counter, displaying an endless scroll of curated faces and fast food recipes. This was their world. Fast. Filtered. Fragile.
When the stream began, I straightened and addressed the children of 3025.
“Today, we explore the Homo Technocentricus—the early 21st-century human. They lived during what historians now call The Tipping Era—a period of extraordinary technological innovation coinciding with profound ecological, psychological, and social decline.”
A pause. I waited for the dramatic effect.
“They connected more than any generation before them… yet loneliness reached pandemic levels. They knew about the melting ice, the rising seas, the poisoned skies. But their solutions were half-measures, obscured by politics, consumerism, and, above all… distraction.”
I led the camera past a gleaming refrigerator stocked with plastic containers—many still sealed, preserved for a thousand years thanks to fossil-based polymers.
“They feared death, aged quickly, and recorded their lives obsessively,” I continued. “But ironically, they left behind very little that endured. Their data rotted faster than their garbage.”
Silence on the stream. A good sign. The children were thinking.
After the broadcast, I remained in the exhibit longer than I needed to. Staring at a dusty bookshelf stacked with titles like The 4-Hour Workweek and How to Be Happy. I picked up one, a paperback, brittle with time. Flipping it open, I noticed handwritten notes in the margin—somebody once argued with the author here. That small act of rebellion felt… real.
A voice startled me. “Do you think we’re any better?”
It was Kalen, my research partner. He leaned against the frame of the faux sliding door, arms crossed.
I hesitated. “We learned. We adapted. We survived.” I gestured around. “But sometimes I wonder if we lost more than we saved.”
Kalen nodded slowly. “Maybe we’re just another layer of sediment.”
Outside the museum, the skies over Neo-Riyadh pulsed amber from solar towers. The air was clean now, the oceans partially healed, the grid decentralized and resilient. But beneath it all, buried under meters of salt and dust, was a world that had danced on the edge of collapse—and sang as it fell.
I left the exhibit with one final glance at the screens, dark and silent now.
Maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t been worshipping rectangles.
Maybe they were screaming into them.