I wrote up a quick stanza about programming and I got back either poems about love, or, just one time, the following observation.

My stanza:

  The code compliantly compiles and yet it fails to parse
  My intentions, which are lost, mired in algebraic transformations
  I run and run and stare aghast at crashes, all alike
  The machine seemingly configured to maximal dislike.

My brain is a computer, it’s a machine. It makes mistakes. It says incorrect things. It’s not even a real machine, really, it’s a bunch of stuff that’s put together so as to create the illusion that it’s a machine.