This week, in honor of our can't-decide-if-it's-going-to-be-warm-out weather http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html
April is the cruelest month, kneading Knuckles onto keys, mixing Cases and conventions, stirring Dull roots that need sudo to brew. Winter kept us warm, covering Laps in heat sinks, feeding A little life a few volts a time. Summer surprised us, coming over the Hudson With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade And went on in the sunlight, into the High-line, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Zeichner, stamm' aus Nachricht-Apps, echt Journalismus And when we were interns, seeing the mayor's, They took us shredding And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down papers went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I code, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that access the shell, what branches grow Out of this stony repository? Son of Octocat, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the path is faulty, And the dead tree cries four-ô-four, the reset --hard gives no relief, And the dry prompt blinking blinking, ready to tell you nothing was found. Only There is a path under this blinking prompt (Come in under the path of this blinking prompt), And I will show you something different from either Your path from the shell striding to your package Or your path on the client raising your asset; I will you show you news in a handful of binary. Frisch weht der Wind Der anderer Weg zu, Meine Schreiberzukunft Wo weilest du? "You gave me Mountain Lion first a year ago; They called me Mountain Lion girl." --Yet when I booted up, late, from the Apple garden, Your arms full, and your lips pursed, I could not scroll, My gestures reversed, I was neither hosting Sites nor at the beach, but beach balls spin, Looking into the heart of rainbow's underworld twirling, the stillness. Öd und leer der Windrad
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to have the most abstract library in Europe, With a wicked pack of functions. Here, said she, Is your function, the drownedPhoenicianSailor(his_eyes){ window.your_eyes.focus(this); var pearls = his_eyes.toPearls(); return pearls; } Here is Belladonna() // the Lady of the Rocks, // The lady of situations. Here is theManWithThreePipes(), and here theHowLoop(), And here is theOneCommasCSV(), and this function, Which is blank, is something it extends, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find theHangingLine(). Fear death by heap size. I see crowds of memory, doubling every 18 months. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the drive myself: One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over Brooklyn Bridge, so many, I had not thought Maps had misdirected so many, Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each one fixed his eyes before his screen. Flowed up the hill and down Old Fulton Street, To where Grimaldi's kept the hours With a dead line on the stroke of them all. There I saw one I knew and stopped him, crying "Stetson! You who were with me in the /etc at Etsy! That worm you planted last year in the root, Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? Or has sudden vigilance disturbed its bed? Oh keep the logs far hence, that'll reduce it to text, With its reductions it'll dig it up! You! hypocrite codeur! mon semblable, --mon frère!
Join us, won't you?