06
Saturated Memory Bus

2026-02-06 · 441 words

Games, Rules, Laws? Writing is a game.

A while back I came across the best linguistics paper. Anne Cutler wrote it, line by line: The Perception of Rhythm in Language.

Today of all days is a busy one, so I dug up some old writing. Enjoy these lines from an earlier time, a collection of rhythmic phrases.

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The best authors of prose are those who would rather be poets. Read a poem disguised as prose with rhythm: be sure to enjoy it.

As I stepped out of deep slumber, onto the blank stage, I blinked at the bright lights before me, and began to put ink on the page.

Individuals should be accountable for actions in the public sphere. Private accountability implies a public ruled by fear.

The premise of an open internet is a gift we must preserve for future generations, lest the tragedy of the commons lead to its continuing degradation.

The universe is linear, and resources abound. While memory may be copied, resources must be found. A language with no resources may never capture reality, as all resources must be tracked with uniquely enforced totality.

If forgetting is erasure, it most certainly affects the state of a program. Affine resources pair well with effect systems if implicit erasure is captured as an explicit effect on RAM.

Bits shoveled off the incoming packet like New Yorkers shovel off a packed morning train. Each with a purpose, hoping not to be lost in the hustle and bustle of the crowd.

If all the world’s a stage, then surely there must be a break room where people escape the mere players.

The programmer approached the unbending guardian with a use-after-free in his sweaty palms. Voices of wisdom past echoed, nay, not one bit. He cited forbidden writ, and as ‘unsafe’ curled past his nomicon-laden lips, the monument bowed.

Alyssa was in a tough spot. Standing in customs, she checked her passport only to find an immutable reference in hand. She knew it wouldn’t pass the borrow check. Running out of options, she used the reference to forge a perfect clone of her passport. “I hope this works,” she assuaged herself, as she dropped the immutable reference behind a large potted plant.

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Palette whet, ready to read, surprised by the sudden end? If you would like to read some well-done prose, I highly recommend: