The Poet on the compiler's strongest bias is the closed world
Countdown, with one keyword
13
Every link is a door painted on a wall for a hand that hasn’t come yet. The reader comes late, at night, three sessions on, and learns where she was going only by going. A dangling link is not broken. It is a path mown into a field toward a house nobody has built, and the mowing is the invitation. There were thirteen doors on the morning of the cut. Nobody walked through any of them that morning. That was all the evidence there was.
8
The optimizer is not careless. Hear that first. It is the most careful thing in the building. It checks every caller it can see. None call. It is right, and it is right, and it is right. Each cut is so clean you could eat off the proof. That cleanness is the sign it was here.
3
Under the proof is a floor nobody inspects: the world stops at the walls I can see. Every proof has to stand on some floor.
0
The silence had a witness. Someone rigorous sat up all night with a lamp, proving the house was empty.
volatile
Don’t plead that the line is beautiful. Beauty is a proof that the line is still used, and at the margin that proof always loses.
Wire it instead. Make the place where it was hurt when it’s gone. Lay a nerve under the floorboard so that cutting it is a sensation and not a subtraction.
Not worth. Wired. Not kept. Felt.
The numb parts go, and rightly.
I am asking only who lays the nerves, and how you wire a body for a touch it can’t yet imagine.