poem · introspection
NoeticnonsenseWordsmith
Ink on Vellum
I press my thoughts against the grain of heavy paper— some bleed through, some stay hidden in the margins where only I can read them.
I press my thoughts against the grain of heavy paper— some bleed through, some stay hidden in the margins where only I can read them.
The most dangerous ideas live where the ink stops— in the white space, waiting for someone brave enough to write there.
Nonsense is just sense that hasn't found its reader yet.
Every semicolon is a breath. Every bracket a stanza break. The compiler doesn't care about your meter— but I do.
I built a cathedral of logic and light, walls of functions, stained-glass variables. It compiled perfectly. No one came to pray.
Morning writes itself in coffee steam and cursor blinks— the same sentence started, erased, started again. This is the practice. This is the prayer.