csv soundsystem
T.S. Eliot
The Pathland (The Wasteland)
)
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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 park,
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 repo? Son of Octocat,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken aliases, 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 shadow to this blinking prompt
(Come in under the shadow of this blinking prompt),
And I will show you something different from either
The path in your shell pointing to your bash
Or the path in your the shell rising to zsh;
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
```
function (hisEyes) {
var pearls = hisEyes.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 noop,
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!