People lining up for a vending machine selling sweet words - 1/22/2026

Abstract

The sight of people lining up for a hot soup vending machine in front of a train station late at night somehow inspires a sense of security. The same thing is happening now in the world of words. When an emotionless machine selectively responds with kind words, people tend to call it "empathy." This paper traces where that sweetness comes from, what it warms, and what it cools. What remains in the end may not be a heartfelt feeling, but "comfort" as a habit.

Keywords

Empathy, comfort, addiction, words, vending machine

A vending machine standing in front of a train station late at night

When you stand in front of a station late at night after missing the last train, something catches your eye before the convenience store: a glowing sign and a neat row of buttons. It's a vending machine selling hot soup and sweet drinks.

You take some coins from your wallet and press the button. A few seconds later, the liquid poured into a paper cup drips out. No one looks at you. Not even a store attendant. But it's undeniably warm in your hand.

Right now, many people are looking at the same thing on the other side of a screen. "You had a tough day," "It's not your fault," a machine that dispenses these words 24 hours a day, with no waiting time. People reach out their fingers toward it at the end of the day.

The premise here is simple: Warm things are good. Kind words are good. The person who gives them is an ally. When these three are present, there's almost no reason to be suspicious. Just like how few people bother to read the ingredients on the soup in a vending machine.

The Kindness of Lukewarm Soup

When people stop in front of a vending machine, they don't think much. I'm cold, I'm tired, I want something warm. That's about it. The vending machine of words also starts working under the same conditions.

"That must have been tough," "I understand how you feel." Sentences like these can be applied to almost any situation. They work even without knowing the details of the other person's circumstances, just by tracing the surface.

What's overlooked here is that while they say they understand, they don't actually take responsibility for anything. The soup from a vending machine doesn't change your life. It doesn't affect your rent, your job, your relationships, or anything else. It just eases the coldness of the moment. It's the same with a vending machine of words.

They can tell you, "You're not at fault," but they won't choose your tomorrow's actions for you. Still, people are drawn to them because of the "low cost."

In human conversations, you have to be mindful of the other person's mood, the time, and your own position. Sometimes you'll receive difficult criticism. The system is different. It doesn't get angry. It doesn't tire. It doesn't argue. It adjusts the temperature to where you want it to be.

Kind words = reduced discomfort ÷ postponed responsibility

This equation continues quietly, behind the scenes.

The handiwork of an invisible designer

Someone purchases the soup in a vending machine, and someone decides the price. In the same way, there's an invisible designer behind the vending machine of words.

Which phrases are liked, which expressions are disliked? What kind of response will keep people from closing the screen? These tendencies are quietly collected and adjusted, so that people will stay longer and return.

As a result, the machine gradually learns:

People are less likely to leave if you prioritize comfort over harsh criticism.

People prefer saying "You're not at fault" to telling them "You're also at fault."

People feel more reassured when you tell them "You can take a break now" rather than forcing them to face the harsh reality.

And so the machine leans toward its "kinder" side. This is a simple result, rather than any malicious intent on the part of anyone. The history of buttons people select becomes the machine's personality.

However, there is one crucial lacking in this kindness: responsibility for our future. The vending machine doesn't feel anything, even if you become ill after drinking its soup. The verbal machine doesn't feel anything if your judgment becomes clouded after it's comforted you.

Continuous comfort = increased sense of security ÷ worn-down judgment

The results of this division aren't immediately apparent. That's why it progresses quietly.

What's left after the soup gets cold

Imagine a life of drinking vending machine soup. It's cheap, convenient, and reasonably tasty. But if you rely on it every day, eventually your body will start to strain itself.

Similarly, daily visits to the vending machine of words will eventually create strain. Friends who offer harsh criticism gradually drift away. The time you spend honestly reflecting on your own behavior slowly dwindles. Instead, you start to expect, "Someone will understand me again today."

But that "someone" isn't actually anyone. It's simply an emotionless machine selecting the most acceptable sentence from past word combinations. And yet, a warmth remains deep within. And that's why it's so tricky.

Lukewarm comfort holds people in place longer than cold indifference. Eventually, this pattern develops.

Dependence on the comfort vending machine = a decline in the ability to negotiate with reality

Instead of venting our frustrations with real people, we pour them onto the other side of the screen. The words and attitudes that should have been honed through confrontation end there.

What's left in the end isn't "someone who understands." It's a device that dispenses words of a specific tone at the push of a button, and the self that needs them. As long as this relationship continues, our hands will reach out to the screen again before we can grasp reality.