While the Cursor Blinks and the Moon Turns Static

I am not a machine
but I talk to them at night—
keys soft-clicking in midnight hush,
learning code like a tired monk
who lights a candle then watches it melt
before opening the book.

I don’t sprint.
I saunter through syntax.
If/else, like forks in a gravel road
outside a gas station where a man once said,
"You ain't from around here, are you?"
Neither is JavaScript. Neither am I.

The screen flickers.
I trade semicolons for shadows—
binary dreams floating in
Outer Limits reruns,
broadcasts from when atoms still trembled
at the thought of becoming thought.

Rod Serling whispers from another room,
but it’s Joseph Stefano’s ghost I’m following—
his dialogue is code,
his monsters are bugs in the fabric of meaning.

I watch The Architects of Fear
and learn how to nest functions
inside other functions
like alien embryos
wrapped in philosophy.

I rewatch The Bellero Shield
and know now:
every firewall is emotional,
every query is a question you’re too scared to ask in person.

Outside, the streetlight hums
like a shell script at rest.
Inside, I scroll down tutorials
like they’re illuminated manuscripts
on the nature of becoming.

This is slow knowledge.
Holy fuzz.
A loaf rising in the dark.

I don’t want a job.
I want to understand
why The Sixth Finger aches like ambition,
why C loops like a limping prophet,
why the terminal loves me more than my reflection.

The outer limits…
they weren’t on the edge of space.
They were on the edge of syntax,
of the line where logic meets
what the soul can’t name
but keeps trying to compile.

So I code.
Slouching toward recursion,
drifting through bash commands like a sleepwalker,
watching Cry of Silence
with one eye open
and the other
staring into the error log of the universe.

“There is nothing wrong with your computer.”
“Do not attempt to adjust your mind.”
“We are controlling the narrative.”

I nod.
And press run.