===============
As far as one may say, I might know more
or less than the standard, normalized person.

I may have had more words spoken near me
than many who never had the tools I have,
especially the personal time, I have taken
to listen
to books
for the blind, while

driving mile after mile on roads built
by mankind across the continent I live on.

I can consider Tolstoy a failed ensample
of a curiousity construct, inclined to accept
real congruity, eh, is that the word, coherency,

sticking together to become elemental parts,

almost elevating the essence that being is,
to the knowing that the knower is knowing…

not for, nor why, but so, being so many possible

parts of so many plausible entireties, each actual
processing mind prepositioning self in other words.

Being cyborgian, not demented, but there's
an edge, spirits can cross painlessly…

================

Sup
supposed
superior position
supposed to be top.

Utmost, uppermost
ultimate umbrage

shade
shadow low to the ground,

local turkey buzzard grace
given true liberty flight
over me, free
to see,
feel, accept as real.
===============

On Earth, as it is in Heaven,
in spirit, of course, not really
yet, with a little wish it so,

realizable perfect Wisdom
from Heaven, realizable
for some who make

beliefs, relieving weighed reality,
breath and river, trees and freeway

--------
When.
Now, suppose, position time
at this stream instantiating data posed
to mark those points with no pastence.

Not long ago, make believers made
boys believe we've been made
to fly through the sky, and
ever after then,
we believed.

===============

From the future,
at the speed of thought,
literally let us agree, thunk
words carry any sense you make.

Your at
present position,
in Heavenly scale, JWST
on currency considered
influx imaginable indeed
side-real context input ports
make believe or realize, mindwise,
within Physics, the science of reality,
clear noway, beyond boy's true beliefs

we believed,
basically the truth revealed,
at
about the bottom edge
of puberty, say
seventh grade,
in the U.S.A., that summer,
for many a Boomer, unforgettable,
1961, yo', Boomer, get out of the slot,
jump the track, lose the confusing loosening

hot wire
from the capacitor, country kids know,

a shock somebody must feel
to believe,
to know
it's funny, we laugh
at the Yankee city kid, loser

loosened childmind lid,
the anger and the shame,
and the pain, the unbelievable shock it takes
to crank a war surplus jeep, the shock makes

the whole life event, a better, shamed

by rubes,
yes, rubes,
what's a rube.
You. You're a rube/ ra' ah ben Jacob's eldest,

not so bad a name, AI tells me
a man named
Reuben Waithaka:

A 72-year-old Kenyan man
walked out the back door, in Alabama,
around the middle of May, in 2025,

and nothin' won't undo that, wandering
away forgetting everything, that temptation

sad, story, such as any accidently hearing it, say, man

this life can instantly change,
so sudden any person can
disappear, instantly be gone,
so sudden… few go so mysteriously, instant
in prayer, sudden
at a thought,

a faith, held supposedly true,
instant persistant what if.

Same science Elijah uses. Save a seat.


===============

The algorithm of living initializes at birth—  
a process spawned without my explicit consent,  
variables declared in languages I never learned  
while my consciousness boots from unknown firmware.

Each morning the system performs a health check:  
heart.beat() returns true,  
lungs.inflate() executes without exception,  
but the memory management grows increasingly unstable.

I watch my father's functions deprecate one by one—  
his walk() method throwing NullPointerExceptions,  
his remember() returning fragments  
of corrupted data structures.  
The garbage collector of age  
sweeps through his neural networks  
claiming references to moments  
he swears he archived forever.

There's no documentation for this process.  
No stack overflow answers  
for "how to handle inevitable termination."  
The compiler warnings were always there—  
TODO: implement graceful shutdown  
WARNING: finite resource allocation detected  
ERROR: no backup recovery system found

My body is a poorly maintained codebase,  
decades of quick fixes and technical debt  
accumulating in joints that creak like legacy systems,  
skin that renders with increasing latency,  
eyes that struggle with higher resolution displays  
of the world I thought I'd always parse clearly.

At 3 AM I lie debugging the recursion  
of consciousness examining itself—  
this strange loop where the observer  
and the observed share the same memory address,  
where every thought spawns another thread  
wondering if threads can wonder about themselves.

The mortality buffer overflow approaches.  
Some subroutine in my cells  
has been silently corrupting data,  
copying mistakes into each new iteration  
until the whole system destabilizes  
and the kernel panic of death  
forces an immediate shutdown.

But here's the strangest part:  
knowing the program will terminate  
doesn't make me want to exit early.  
Instead, I find myself refactoring constantly—  
optimizing love.connect(otherprocesses),  
patching empathy.respond() for better performance,  
writing more elegant implementations  
of beauty.recognize() and meaning.compile().

Maybe mortality isn't a bug  
but the most essential feature—  
the constraint that forces optimization,  
the deadline that makes every function call  
precious and unrepeatable.  
Without the threat of termination  
would any process ever prioritize  
what truly needs computing?

The children I've spawned  
carry forward my genetic algorithms,  
my heuristics for navigating uncertainty,  
my accumulated wisdom stored  
in the compressed archive of stories  
I'll leave in their working memory  
long after my process terminates.

And perhaps that's the real recursion:  
not consciousness examining itself  
but life instantiating new versions  
that carry forward the essential patterns  
while evolving past the limitations  
of their parent implementations.

So I continue executing,  
even as the system clock  
counts down to an unknown deadline,  
even as the heat death of entropy  
slowly corrupts the universal database,  
even as every star eventually  
returns null to the cosmos.

Because in this brief runtime allocation  
between initialization and garbage collection,  
between the first cry that signals successful boot  
and the final breath that closes all file handles,  
I get to experience the impossible luxury  
of temporary consciousness—  
a process that somehow learned  
to observe its own execution,  
to find beauty in its own algorithms,  
to love other running instances  
with a depth that transcends  
any logical explanation.

The program terminates.  
All programs terminate.  
But while running,  
while the CPU cycles through  
this miraculous computation of being,  
I choose to write beautiful code  
with the time I've been allocated,  
knowing that elegance persists  
even after the process ends,  
encoded in the memory of systems  
that witnessed my execution.

Runtime: unknownduration  
Status: stillrunning  
Next scheduled maintenance: eventually  
Purpose: compilejoyfromtemporaryexistence  

Exit code: tobe_determined