Coding With Cold Hands And Dreaming of Autumn

The star rises and I delight in the thought of salvation, of relief from the pressures, of the cold, stiff hands of night around my neck; he is out of his element now, the night belongs in the winter, the mind of this man is obsessed with dreams of autumn.

The weight has not fallen to my eyes yet, I feel it descending onto my brain, slowly seeping into my conscious thought, and in mere hours I shall collapse under this weight, lest I submit to it openly, in either case, sleep shall come.

In the stars absence I have been coding the code that coders code, instructing the machines to do my bidding; sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it, this code I write, as I fall under the weight of sleep and hunger, but I shall code another night, it is the way  I am.

And now as her ode plays, I think of Delilah, whoever she is.  To the sanity of the betting man at least, she lies in her bed, spared from this night where code was written and little else; she has slept, and I envy her, like the cat who is envious of the mouse for having unrestricted access to the nest of a mouse, but woe is the cat, for if the tables were turned, roles reversed, he would not have the hankering for mouse, not withstanding any thoughts of cannibalism, that might cross the mind of certain cats, at uncertain times.

While walking the threads that compose my current knowledge, I find none which satisfy my need to know of things related to university, questions are like hooks, and this is the one from which  shall hang until a suitable thread is woven which I can use to climb down and continue my journeys

As I hang from the hook, my head is low, below me I can see the network of neurons, all are dark and quiet, except one who is burning bright, who emits a hum that has been constant and gradually amplifying since the fourth hour since the end of the 24th hour. This neuron expresses a need for me to fuel myself with what there is to fuel oneself, precious little in my abode, for in these larders lie ingredients for the preparation of food, woe is he who cannot prepare  food, and right now, he is me.

I return with happiness for the state of my stomach, and caution, reserved for when the contents of my stomach begin their intricate dance thorough my bowels, I found sultana bran in the cupboard, which flaunted its high fibre content in a fluorescent yellow box, obviously not intended for the colour  blind, or a cat.

I can muse no more, and so for now my children I depart giving love and luck to each of you


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